Validation
by LaBohme
Summary: Based after the season 10 finale, in which Dean has killed both Sam and Death, Rowena has taken the Mark from Dean and given it to Crowley, and both Dean and a very human Castiel run from the hunter life and all their problems. This is not a happy story.
1. Prologue

"Brother, I'm done. Grab a pen. It's time to say good-bye." Dean fights to keep his voice from cracking as he says those lines. Death is within earshot and if he's about to die, he'll make damn well sure to die with his pride intact.

He hears Death let out a soft breath at his choice of words, like a laugh. He's amused. Amused. Dean is about to offer up his brother's life and Death is amused. Dean doesn't feel amused. He doesn't feel anything. That's the Mark. The Mark has two settings: rage and nothing. Dean almost prefers rage. At least it's something. At least it's human.

Dean stands, hands loose at his sides, face stony, fighting to keep his mind blank as he hears tires struggle over the mud and the grass outside. Tires on grass. Dean closes his eyes. Tires on grass is Bobby coming home. Tires on grass is stopping for a picnic of shitty subs – him, Sam, Baby. Tires on grass is a break eight hours into a drive to look at stars and breathe. Tires on grass. Tires on grass is Sam walking to his death.

Sam enters the darkened restaurant.

Enters.

Face hopeful and red. Eyebrows high and pleading and hoping against hope and melting a little when he sees Dean safe inside. Eyes falling and dark when he spies Death in the corner.

"Hey-"

"Sam,"

"What is this?"

"We need to talk." Dean keeps his voice low and business-like. Business-like like his Dad taught him. It deters arguments. Reserved for when they were moving again or when John had to leave for a week or two. Reserved, apparently, for when Dean orders Sam to his death.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't. There's another way. You don't need to go with him. You don't need to die!" Sam's voice is higher and breathy and desperate and it makes Sam into the little brother again and something inside Dean, something dusty and underused, screams and fights and cries because this is Sammy. This is _Sammy_.

"Funny you say that. Truth is, when I left I thought the only way out was my death. Well I was wrong, Sam. It's yours."

This is _Sammy_.

But Dean's brain and part of his heart, the selfless and self-loathing part, kicks all the other parts into submission and he forces himself blank and he teeters in and out of full consciousness. He doesn't hear all. He hears bits and pieces, and his mind is sitting on a dock, fishing rod in hand, sun low and birds quieting.

Death is talking. Always talking. Stupid British accents. Stupid Death. Always talking.

"Even if I remove Dean from the playing field, we're still left with you. Loyal, dogged Sam, who I suspect will never rest until he sets his brother free, will never rest until his brother is free from the Mark, which simply cannot happen, lest the Darkness be set free."

"You traded my life?"

Dean snaps back into reality. Because the look Sam's giving him makes him want to throw up. It's pain and fear and disbelief and raw hurt, but that's not what makes Dean sick. It's that while Sam is surprised, he understands. He was almost expecting it. Expecting Dean to betray him. Dean swallows thickly.

"I'm willing to live with this thing, forever, as long as I know that I, and it, will never hurt another living thing."

Lies. Dean does not want to live forever. He wants to sleep. Dear God, he wants to sleep. It's been years now – all he's wanted is sleep. So tired. Tired of life and of fighting and of losing over and over and over.

"This isn't you. This doesn't make any sense."

Sammy's right. But what is Dean Winchester, now? He is not what he was ten years ago. Or five. Or two. Dean Winchester barely exists. What is Dean Winchester?

Dean Winchesters is the monster.

"No, it makes perfect sense, if you stop thinking about yourself for one damn minute."

Lies.

This is _Sammy_.

"It's for the greater good. Once you consider that, it makes all the sense in the world." Death speaks again.

And again Dean is saying such ugly, ugly things that match all the ugliness crawling around inside of him and everything is just ugly and broken and Dean just wants sleep.

"… You were right, Sam. You knew that this world would be better without us in it."

Why is he saying this?

Because it's true.

Or maybe Dean just really, really wants it to be true. He just wants peace.

"… We are not evil."

God, Sam, just accept it. Winchesters are monsters. Dean is a monster. Sam is a monster. But does that mean that they're not human? No. Humans are monsters, too, and they're evil and they're corrupt and yet Dean and Sam try so hard to save them anyway.

"There is no other way, Sam."

But, fuck, does he wish there were.

Dean barely feels the fist land on his cheekbone but he likes it because it's something and Dean needs to feel something. Feeling is humanity. Dean craves humanity. So the Mark can eat it all up again.

Dean's words are a growl and he's not even aware he's saying them, because it's the Mark who's using his mouth. "Good. Fight."

Fists fly and land and stomachs and jaws are bruised and damaged and Dean loves it because it's something and it's satisfying and it's human.

"Okay. That's enough. That's enough." Sam cowers. His hands cover his face.

And then it's not satisfying or human because it's Sam. It's Sammy. And Dean breaks just the littlest bit more.

Sam's words are slow and deliberate and each one lands on Dean like a mosquito and it hurts because he doesn't believe. "You will never hear me say that you, the real you, is anything but good. But you're right. Before you hurt anyone else, you have to be stopped. At any cost. I understand. Do it."

Dean is the monster.

And Dean's not ready. He wants more fight. He wants more stalling and more talking and more time.

This is _Sammy_.

The scythe is in his hand and it's cold and heavy and Dean's heart is cold and heavy and he doesn't even know why he's doing this anymore, but he looks at Sam and it hurts too much. It will hurt too much to live with his disapproval and shame and it will hurt too much to be loved by him.

"Close your eyes. Sammy, close your eyes."

"Wait." Pictures, old and faded, are laid out on the dirty cement floor. They hurt like beestings and Dean thinks they're beautiful. "Take these. And one day, when you find your way back, let these be your guide. They can help you remember what it was to be good. What it was to love."

Dean doesn't want to remember what it was to be good. What it was to love. Love is humanity and humanity is pain. Endless pain and he's had enough pain and all he wants is sleep and peace and there's just no other way.

Death utters a few more words, some of which make it into Dean's head.

"Stain on their memory… do it. Or I will."

And the thought of Death, this dirty, unknowing creature killing Sam hurts more than Dean thought it could because Sammy is his. And at least Dean can kill him with a loving hand and his last view will be of the one person who loves him more than he loves himself. It doesn't even make any sense but Dean doesn't know what sense is anymore but he will not let Death kill Sam and Dean's already broken anyway.

Dean's voice doesn't want to work and that underused thing inside of him is screaming again and inside he's crying because the command to protect Sammy was literally beaten into him and this goes against every single action he's ever done and it hurts so much that Dean just has to put an end to it. "Forgive me."

Sam's eyes are beautiful and wet and soft and his mouth pulls into a pained smile because he understands and he loves Dean so much and it just hurts hurts hurts and it needs to stop.

Then wind is pulling over the scythe and it's swinging in a wide, beautiful arc and Sam's neck barely slows it down as it slices through and continues on until it buries itself in the stomach of its master. Death crumbles as Sam falls.

And then Dean's terrified because he feels nothing. He's absolutely empty. His reason to live is gone and living forever is therefore his ultimate punishment and by God, does he deserve it. Dean craves pain because pain is humanity and the Mark is hungry, so hungry, and Dean can't even weep over the body of his dead brother. The thing inside of him that was screaming dies and Dean is empty.

Then lightening comes from the ceiling and Dean's not surprised – he's not anything – and the blue light curls around his forearm, caresses the Mark, and burns it off and Dean stands there looking at it and tears are running over his cheeks as the Mark burns away and his skin is smooth and untainted and then Dean smells Sam's death and doubles over, vomiting on the floor and he is so, so alone.


	2. September 3rd

Sorry, everyone. Here's not-HTML.

* * *

Sam's pyre is beautiful. It's a work of art that hurts Dean, but not as much as he thinks it should. The pain of Sam's death is dull in Dean, heavy and thick, coating his insides. It fills him - all the cracks and holes and hidden places that are too vulnerable and Dean learns to breathe around this new weight. It is ever-present, and Dean can neither blink nor twitch a finger without having to maneuver himself through the weight of his grief. It is tangible. And it is all-consuming.

But it is not sharp, as Dean expected it to be. It is not an overwhelming stabbing sensation as Dean thought. It is not debilitating. And the guilt Dean feels over the absence of that pain is monstrous.

The pyre burns high and bright and tiniest pieces of wood and ash flick through the air and make Dean's eyes burn. He doesn't blink the pain away and he doesn't wipe his tears. He is silent, hands in his pockets, face placid, and watches his brother burn, as he has let happen so many times in life.

Dean's hands do not shake. They were steady stacking the rotting logs and fallen trees and they are still at his sides. He has had too much practice in building pyres. The simple formula of making one is familiar and calming and Dean lost himself in the process until the time came to put Sam's body on top of it. It was not wrapped in clean white cotton. It was bloody and sticky and it smelled and it is not Sam. Dean's hands only shook when he placed Sam's head on the wood, and his hair was still soft as in life and his eyes were shut peacefully. Dean's eyes fluttered closed and he forced his stomach to calm. He breathed through his grief until he could unknot his fingers from shaggy hair and could raise his head. He has had nightmares of this moment before. Often. Never voiced, but ever-present, and this time it is real.

It is more peaceful than Dean thought it would be. If he closes his eyes, it's kind of nice. The long grasses of the clearing brush his jeans in soft wind and birds are sweet and distant and the sun's heat is a blanket drifting lazily over everything. The trees are lit golden.

The smell of burning hair fills Dean's nostrils and this is no longer beautiful. Dean tries hard not to shut his eyes - not to remember things that will only heighten this pain. But every instinctual blink is a picture of Sammy. His profile from the passenger seat of the Impala, the softest shadows moonlight cast over his face, the weight of him in his blanket, crying as Dean runs from a burning house, the light in his eyes the first time he ate popcorn, the scrunch of his nose the first time he shot a gun, his laugh over macaroni and cheese at a small, dirty table, the weight in Dean's chest when he left for Stanford, a comforting hand on a shoulder, standing over a grave, buying new suits and teaching Sam how to shave. It is all Sam. And now Sam's head is rolling and on fire.

Sam's ashes are carried on the wind and scattered through field and forest. The pyre doesn't die and Dean leaves it to burn out.

His phone is flicked unceremoniously into a ditch along with Sam's. They sit comfortably together among the reeds and wet grasses and Dean envies them.

The Impala is driven for three hours before Dean can no longer handle the silence and his chest wells with something unexplainable. Dean isn't sure how to release this pressure besides keening, pressing his palms into his eyes sockets, and curling into himself. The car is just too fucking empty and too silent and this weight is so crushingly heavy and Dean realizes that without Sam, that's all it is. It's a car. It is nothing more than a car and Dean cannot look at it. He loves it too much. He needs to leave.

The Impala is left at the nearest rest stop along with the guns and Bobby's hat and a green toy soldier and a cardboard box full of tapes and papers.

Dean steals a crap Sunfire with a coughing engine and he is empty. He left his heart at the pyre and his past with Baby and Dean is finished.


	3. March 6th

Dean's fingers are white-tipped and twitching, clutching the tumbler like his life depends on it. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, on emptying his mind, but this weight inside of him is pulsing and alive. Dean is certain it is pain incarnate. His forearm throbs and itches. The glass is held tighter. The background of Dean's mind is surprised it doesn't shatter. The forefront is trying and failing to soothe itself out of another panic attack. It is failing miserably. Dean bows his head, hunches his shoulders, curls in on himself, shakes and twitches wracking their way through his body and he prays that soon the alcohol will take effect and ease him out of this misery, at least for a few hours. More. He needs more. He knocks back the remaining whiskey and motions brusquely for another.

People are staring. This man at one of the stools, among everyone, he stands out. He isn't looking at anyone, listening to anyone. He's not acting like a usual drunk. It looks like he's possessed. Fighting a demon, or his own demons. His entire body is held up tight and painful, like he's waiting to be hit. His legs are bent up high on the barstool and his back is bowed. A few men mutter 'freak' and turn their girlfriends away from him. They give him space and secretly count the number of glasses that touch his lips. It's a ridiculous number. Ten, twelve, maybe. But he seems conscious as ever, and not any less tense. Maybe he's a druggie, some think. Took something bad, suffering from a bad trip. Maybe he's just a weirdo who gets off on drinking in public. But his face is twisted in unimaginable pain. He is not enjoying this. Maybe he's schizo. Psycho.

But no knows what really happened, and no one offers sympathy or a hand. They give Dean space and somewhere in those unholy hours, where night is almost morning, and the bar is almost closed, Dean starts to feel relief. He can feel the blood pulsing in his veins, feel it tinged with alcohol to such a high extent he's buzzing with it. He's drunk. Finally. Not stupid, kiss-an-old-man, pass-out-on-the-pool-table drunk. But drunk enough so the low hum in the back of his skull deadens the screeching pain and grief and whatever else prevents him from sleeping or even functioning normally. Drunk, Dean can actually walk. He does not double over from sudden intense bursts of physical or emotional pain. His eyes do not show him a mixture of real-world images and past horrors. His ears do not sing that one pure, high note the scythe made as it swung through the air. And Dean can breathe.

His body sags with relief, with this small amount of bliss he's been offered. His bones and muscles are loose and sore from being held so tightly for hours on end.

Maybe tonight he'll be able to sleep. The hope that rises in his chest is tainted with sour thoughts and despair and the unavoidable fact that he hasn't actually slept through a night since the Mark touched his arm.

Dean knocks back his last two fingers and prays it's enough to stop the nightmares for at least a few hours. His head is heavy. His body is starting to degrade, slowly, from lack of food and water and exercise and sleep. His body is dying. And that is the highlight of Dean's days.

* * *

Dean's phone rings and it's foreign. He jerks away from the sound like a feral animal. He got a new number five or six months ago, along with a new apartment and a new town and a new life. It hurt, leaving Sam and Baby and everything he'd ever known. But he was already broken - smashed to shards that hurt every time he moves. And it can't get worse. It can't. It did, right after he killed Sam, because Rowena took the curse from him and gave it to her son, and if Dean had waiting five fucking minutes Sam would still be alive but the cruel and selfish and terribly human parts of Dean whisper that Sam was a big part of the pain in Dean's life and now that the ultimate pain has been dealt it can't possibly get any worse. It just can't. It can't.

But that doesn't mean Dean's chest doesn't clench with agony when he answers and it's Castiel's stupidly soft and rough voice on the other end and Dean hasn't heard that in near seven months and it washes over him in prickling waves and he can't tell if it hurts or if it feels good. Dean doesn't hear the words Cas says. He's lost beyond that low greeting of "Hello, Dean", the reverberations of his voice sending Dean to places long repressed, like quiet nights in a dark car and stressed syllables in dirty motels and Dean just aches.

His fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose and his head is bent, either in pain or in reverence and his eyes close. In Castiel's voice, he finds this physical calm, an in-between state where he doesn't want to move for fear of shattering the bliss, and in which his body quiets and uncoils in favour of his mind racing faster faster faster.

He doesn't hear Cas. Not really. But he sees soft hands on faces and rough hands on jacketed shoulders and he sees monsters and nightmares and darkness and blood. But he doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to shatter the horrors, because the voice is so soft. He wants to curl himself into it and sleep for eternity.

Cas keeps talking and his voice stays low and smooth and soon Dean's breaths are slow and whine as they catch in his throat and he finds himself listening, absorbing his words voraciously like a starved dog. It's been so long since anyone's talked to Dean, talked to him like this, like everything's okay and forgiven and Goddamn, it hurts.

Dean isn't sure how to handle it. He's not sure what to make of Cas' call, what it means. Doesn't want to think about. He's sure it'll just bring more pain and for fuck's sake Dean cannot deal with much more pain. He's mad at Cas, because Dean was okay with living in his exile. It hurt every day and it wasn't good or nice or even fine, but it was okay. He had accepted it. 'Forgotten' Cas and all the others whose lives he'd ruined. Moved on, or so he tells himself. And he was living. But now Castiel is here, and Dean, who can't sleep or talk or leave his apartment unless he's heading to a bar, sure as hell cannot start up where he left off with him.

Dean is finished with family and angels and monsters and hunting as a whole. He cannot talk to Castiel. He cannot see Castiel.

It will hurt too much and most certainly end in more pain.

Dean hangs up the phone and those words, rough as gravel, smooth as honey, end. Dean leans back against the wall on the floor of his room and sees blue eyes and pink lips and a tattered trench and wings on fire.


	4. March 8th

Tonight, Dean's nightmare is new. Tonight, the nightmare is not of Sam's death. It is not a montage of all the times Dean let Sam down, all the times he allowed his little brother's suffering and pain and all the times he caused it. There is a new face haunting Dean's dreams.

Castiel's face.

And it is bloody.

Dean's fists are bloody, too, and his vision is tinged black and red. His breaths are heaving and his muscles are twitching and oh, Dean's Master is there. Sitting on his forearm, whispering through his veins, goading him, blinding him, filling him with a rage so pure and quiet Dean only hears the rushing of his own blood and the pumping of his own heart. Cas' mouth is moving, and his brow is pulled high and distressed and his eyes are wet and wide and Dean cannot look at them and he cannot hear him. He avoids the books on the floor and stalks closer and closer to this pathetic fallen Angel among the wreck and ruin and beats him, brutally, over and over and over and Cas lets him. He always just fucking _lets_ him.

And then the image spasms and now Dean is sitting on Castiel's back and the Angel's wings, long and black and silken, are spread wide across the floor and Cas' face is buried in his arms and Dean's ripping feathers out by the handful, bloody and sticky and snapping like twigs. Dean's grunting with the effort, finding pleasure in the simple twist-pull, all it takes to create bloody bald patches and the Mark is whispering to him, and it feels good. And Cas just fucking lets him.

And then Cas lifts his head and his eyes are wet and open and he twists to look at Dean and he nods and says, "It's okay." And Dean's hand, full of feathers and gore, freezes. Dean's eyes meet the Angel's and suddenly, Dean is awake.

And he is gasping for breath.

Dean jack-knifes into a sitting position and struggles for air, his sides heaving and his face wet. The sweat on his back and brow cool quickly and send shivers wracking through his spine. His breath is shaking and stuttering and Dean runs to the bathroom, holding his hands out in front of himself, but when he turns the light on with an elbow, he realizes they're not sticky with blood. They're not wet and they're not tickled by feather tips. He drops his head and clenches his teeth and throws up in the toilet and stands in front of the mirror. His hands grip the sides of the sink and he shakes.

The apartment is silent besides Dean's laboured, quaking breaths which echo over the walls and Dean hates it. He covers his ears with his hands so all he can hear is his blood and his heart. It sounds alive. It sounds human. Dean begs for the faint sense of comfort it offers.

He breathes until it's even and normal, eyes shut, lips thin. He pretends he is not alone.

He opens his eyes, dropping his hands, and he is _very_ alone.

* * *

Dean's fingers quiver, hovering over that little green phone icon and his eyes flicker back and forth from that unfamiliar number above it. This is a bad idea. What is he thinking. What the hell. This is stupid. Dean should stop. But he can't. And he doesn't.

Dean breathes. In and out. In and out. In and he presses the button. His hands are shaking and he steadies the one holding the phone by pressing it to his ear. His free hand reaches up and covers his forehead, shielding his eyes from the light and in the darkness he searches for comfort. With each ring the pumping of his heart increases faster and faster until Dean is sure his heart is about to beat right out of his chest and his head is pounding with nerves and just as he's about to hang up, the ringing stops.

It's quiet for a second, just crackle and silence, until _that voice_ says, "Dean?"

And Dean near fucking whimpers at that.

And then Cas fucking repeats it. "Dean." But this time it's laced with hope and lightness and relief and it's a dangerous poison.

It's quiet for a second, and Dean realizes that the thumping of his heart has stopped, the pressure in his head has weakened, and he thinks he feels actual comfort, sitting quietly on the phone with Castiel. It scares Dean. But it feels too good to destroy.

Dean clears his throat. "Hey, Cas." His voice is rough and low from disuse and screaming in the night. Dean winces at it. It does not sound like it used to. But then, he doesn't feel like he used to. "How's things?"

Cas' tone is somber, now. Low and gravelly like it was. Cas, unlike Dean, sounds mostly like his old self. Dean finds comfort in that. "Things are alright. Would you join me at a bar?"

And now the racing of Dean's heart is back, the sudden, debilitating panic attacks he's been having for weeks - the air crushing out of his lungs, his head screaming with pain, all his muscles curling into himself and twitching. But then Cas adds a weak, "Please," And it sounds damn near like begging and it's soft and honeyed and Dean blinks and sees that dream, sees the reality behind it, and the guilt of leaving Castiel on the ground of the library, beaten, bloody, bruised, broken; it's a tangible being, strangling Dean from behind and he needs it dead.

So he says yes, throat tight and breaths short. And Cas says thank you, gives him the name, and hangs up. And once again Dean is alone, so very alone, and he curls himself into the corner of his room and waits for the guilt, panic, fear, agony, clawing at the insides of his chest to subside and allow him to stand.

* * *

Hey, all, I really appreciate reviews! Tell me what you like, what you don't. It makes me better :)


	5. March 10th

Dean's Honda Civic is old, used, and smells like dog and sunscreen and Dean revels in it because it's everything his life has never been and that means there are no memories attached to it.

It sputters to a halt as he parks in the dark lot off a county road. This, unlike the car, is all too familiar and neon bar signs are Sam's face highlighted red and the burn of whiskey and the thick satisfaction of a finished hunt and it hurts so Dean grits his teeth 'til his jaw creaks.

He swings the door open and hits his head as he moves to get out, like usual. He grimaces at the rusted silver paint and he can't help the _pull_ he feels in his gut every time he looks at it and he feels guilt for missing the Impala so damn much, because it's just a fucking car.

But it's not. The Impala is pure nostalgia and goodness and it was Dean's haven and home and safety and family for the entirety of his damn life and why the hell does Dean have to suffer through that being taken away from him?

Because Dean deserves to be punished in ways far more severe and profound than losing that car. And Dean's falling into the system of Hell - a state he buried, but never truly forgot, where pain is common and dealt freely and Dean tries hard to accustom himself to it because he knows he deserves it and he knows that he'll be doing this to himself 'til the end of his days and so when Dean heads into the bar, it's just another kind of pain, another finger in the wound, and Dean's okay with that.

When he enters the bar he feels a familiar sense of belonging, one he hasn't felt since those first few weeks after the death of his brother, when barstools became more familiar than beds and days and nights were spent staring into the fragmented light of a shot glass, and Dean quite literally drowned his sorrows. Dean remembers those weeks in a hazy, soft light. He remembers pain whenever the alcohol pulsing through his blood started to ease off and the desperate, animalistic need for more whenever he was actually sober enough to remember the events and words spoken that night.

Dean hardens his face into the blank mask he wears too often and looks around, taking in the usual regulars, with their belly laughs and sloshing pints, to the whores hanging off the bar, and notices the balloons and streamers and singing and shots and Dean guesses it's the owner's birthday. The dark gold-lit room feels disgustingly close to a home and Dean glances quickly over the patrons 'til he spots a familiar head of dark, unruly hair sitting at a small booth in the corner.

Dean's body tries to cease functioning. His brain is at once both blank and blazing, that one pure, high note filling his ears and his blood thrumming in a way he's sure everyone else can hear too. Dean can feel the adrenaline leak and spread from his chest to his toes and every single instinct he possesses tells him to turn tail and run. He sees feathers and blood and teeth and it takes all he has to stop six feet away from the table and force the tiniest noise past his lips.

The wide eyes turning to stare patiently and earnestly up at Dean are blue. So fucking blue they're the sky and the ocean and ponds and rain all at once and they're round and hold something so tender that Dean needs to drop the gaze and Castiel's mouth is soft and accepting like it always has been and he's cleaned himself up. His hair is neater and his scruff is nothing but a bluish shadow and Dean tells himself that the scruff and the messy hair was his fault, his fault that Castiel couldn't spend time on combing and shaving like he so obviously wanted to. His fault that Castiel always looked so haphazard and rushed and the guilt is coming in waves, streaming over him, and then Dean remembers that the last time he saw Castiel, he nearly stabbed him in the fucking face.

Dean turns away and covers his face with a hand, eyes closing and breaths coming fast. All he sees is the knife in his hand and he can feel the Mark pulsing through his veins and every single fucking cell of him is screaming for him to just _end_ this pathetic Angel and Dean honestly doesn't know why he didn't but God, did he want to. He could see it, see himself ending Castiel, see the blood and the gore and the slick and the Mark would reward him graciously and Dean wants to throw up.

"Dean."

And there it is - that low, raw voice that has anchored him more times than he can count over these past seven years and it quiets Dean's mind and brings him to the present. Castiel's voice is sidelong looks from the passenger seat and quiet consolation in low motel light and the warm, calloused touch of a hand to a cheek and Dean needs to choke back a sound that's startlingly close to a whimper.

There it is again, "Dean," And it's patient and calm and dripping with something Dean can't - or won't - think too much about.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes as he takes a seat across from the Angel.

Castiel waits for him, like he always has. He sits quietly and still and Dean sits rigid and twitching and they order when the waitress comes around and Castiel's order is soft and low and Dean's is barked and quick and Dean absolutely hates this.

Their relationship was never about domesticity - about awkward dates at a crappy bar or stinted phone calls or anything even in the ballpark of normal. Their relationship was always fighting for the world and for each other and sacrifice and hardship and heroism and Dean doesn't know if he can handle this - this soft silence with no new tragedy to talk their way through. It's unnatural and uncomfortable and it's not the same without Sam hanging over their shoulders and Goddammit, Dean just wants to leave.

"How have you been?"

Dean jolts, looking up from the napkin crumpled and ripped in his fist with wide eyes and quick breaths.

But Castiel is trying, for fuck's sake. He's trying and his eyes are sad and the corners of his mouth are lower and more lined than they used to be and Dean hates it.

"Good." He manages and he can't meet Castiel's eyes because he deserves so much more than this - than what Dean can offer and Dean just isn't worthy of what Castiel's offering him. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Good… How did you find me?" It's been something Dean's been thinking about since the moment he heard Cas' voice over the phone.

Now it's Castiel's turn to avert his eyes. He stares into his lap and his lips quirk to a funny, sardonic half-grin and Dean doesn't like it. "After that night, I was… lost." He clears his throat and adjusts his sleeves. "Rowena took my Grace. I'm not sure if you knew that. I'm human now."

His eyes flicker up to meet Dean's and they hurt and Dean hurts because for the fucking love of God, Cas has fallen a second time, and Dean has left him alone and uncared for for a second time. Dean sees the Angel's eyes from three years ago after Dean told him he couldn't stay, and he can hear the faith Castiel lost in Dean that night, and he can taste the sour disloyalty and the disgustingly bitter nostalgia and -

Castiel continues, his voice higher in what Dean thinks to be feigned nonchalance and Cas is raising his brow and nodding to himself like he does when he says something that hurts but he doesn't want to show it. "So I was alone," Dean's chest is pulsing with pain and the look Castiel gives him is so soft. Dean sees that red hoodie and blue Gas N' Sip uniform and he sees Castiel sleeping alone and forsaken in an alley. "and I was confused, and I saw you were heading west… so I followed." Castiel's eyes flicker up to meet Dean's and they hold apprehension and he's looking for Dean's approval and it makes Dean sick.

"Good." Dean says, and it doesn't even make sense with the conversation but it's all he can bring himself to say because his mind is reeling and his fingers are quaking and white under the wet glass of his bottle. Cas followed him. Cas followed him. Looked for guidance, for a friend, for someone to help and lead him through this difficult and trying time _again_ and Dean was ignoring him _again,_ sitting in a fucking bar drinking himself stupid and the guilt is streaming over him and he's drenched in it and needs air and Dean just manages to stop himself from hunching over and gasping for breath.

 _He's the monster._

 _He's the monster._

 _He's the monster-_

"Dean." And now Cas looks concerned and Hell, this was a bad idea and Dean can't, _just fucking can't_ talk to this ghost anymore because dammit, it hurts and Sam's not here and nobody's here but Dean and Cas but he's too broken to try to reinsert himself into Cas' life and everything would be better if Dean were just forgotten. If the world could leave Dean in his shitty apartment and let him drink himself away, everything would be better and perhaps Castiel could stop hurting and start living and he won't have to have been a waste of life.

Dean sees a ring of fire with Castiel at the centre and he sees fistfuls of black feathers and blood and infinite blue eyes pleading for acceptance.

"Can't do it, Cas," Dean bites out and he swipes a hand over his mouth, his vision swimming and heart thundering as he pushes himself out of their booth and out the doors.

Castiel is quick to follow, leaving their full plates on the table, and tentatively grips Dean's shoulder in a gesture far too familiar. Dean jerks away from the touch and Castiel pulls his hand back to his chest as if he's been burned. His eyes are liquid and hold that same look. _The look._ The look that everyone gives Dean, sometime or other, once he's let them down and disappointed them and fuck it, Dean wants to die.

"Dean," Soft and low and rough and broken and smashed and ruined.

"Quit it!" And Cas stares at him, bewildered and scared, and that mantra pulses through Dean's mind, through his veins, _I'm the monster, I'm the monster, I'm the monster._ "I can't… Don't say that." It's all Dean can manage and he wishes to God he had the ability to explain it better but he just can't right now and he prays Cas will understand that; understand that Cas saying his name like that, like a caress and like a kiss, hurts more than anything has since the murder of Sam. And then Dean remembers that Cas, now human, can no longer hear his prayers, and Dean feels truly alone.

Castiel places himself directly in front of Dean again, and this time his eyes, blue and beautiful and profound, hold more things Dean does not deserve, like forgiveness and understanding and tenderness and Dean aches. He looks away from the Angel-turned-man and through a big window towards the happenings inside the bar and there's live music. They're young and local and loud and if Dean were younger he'd ask someone to dance. But he is old and used and broken so he stands and watches those who are not. He wonders if Castiel feels the same way. He counts to twenty and turns again to face the man, who is staring at him with sympathy and hurt and Dean allows himself to start re-memorizing the curve of his cheek and the arch of his brow before dropping his eyes again. He notices Castiel's hands. They look warm and wide and safe and Dean longs for them in a way too deep and primal for him to really understand. He thinks about how now, maybe, those hands might get a chance to callous with age and how Sam will never pass 32 and how nice it would be if he himself never passed 37. He thinks about the colour of Sam's blood and the smell of his death in the air.

His face is placid.

He blinks at Castiel, woken from his reverie, and Castiel's eyes are low as he places a string of metallic blue party beads in Dean's slack hand.

"It's nice to see you, Dean." He rumbles softly, his gaze falling away.

And Castiel's voice is so honest and warm and his eyes are so soft and gentle and blue that Dean's throat is tight. He lets out a choked breath and is overwhelmed by the look Castiel's eyes hold and the warmth and safety his hands promise and he turns and leaves, winding his way through cars until he reaches his shitty little Civic. Dean slams the door almost manically behind himself and immediately checks rearview mirror and Castiel is standing there, haloed in pulsing red and yellow light and he looks like he's caught in fire and sunbeams and it looks to Dean like the colours of Hell. Dean releases a high-pitched keen, because it's the only way to relieve the pressure threatening to make his chest explode, but he lets no tears stain his cheeks. He squeezes the cheap necklace in his fist and moans pure pain and frustration through gritted teeth and his brows are pulled high and pleading.

Dean holds the necklace to his breast like it's some precious and holy thing and it stays close to his heart as he drives through the dark towards a cold and empty house.


	6. March 11th

towards the end i'm referring to s08e12, fyi

* * *

Dean's buzzed. Perhaps that's an understatement.

He was almost home. Almost there. He can actually see his apartment building from the big window taking up one wall of the bar. It's shady. In a bad part of town. Dean doesn't care. He's seen worse.

Not that he's actually concerned about his personal wellbeing right now.

He sways on the barstool and thinks that for the first time, in a few months at least, he can call himself honest-to-God, bonafide drunk. It's been a while. The feeling's almost unfamiliar to Dean. He wasn't sure that he could even get drunk anymore. But an undetermined amount of whiskey and a few beers (once the bartender cut him off the good stuff) later, he's definitely unable to drive.

Dean closes his eyes. There are glasses clinking and people talking and the radiating warmth of a room full of bodies. Dean sees blue. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Pink lips. Castle's face, but not Castiel. No. Castiel was too much. He made Dean hurt. Dean's almost angry with him, for bringing that back. Bringing back that pain Dean had harboured for so long, managed to store and put away and focus on his grieving for his brother instead. But seeing that man - it was slashing open an old wound and the blood was flowing thick and fast as ever. It stung. His voice, his eyes, were aching thuds like low punches and Dean couldn't take it, the emotional and psychological damage Castiel brought to the surface of Dean's consciousness. And what now? He's supposed to forget him? Forget that ordeal and the tone of his voice and the look his eyes held? Forget the way his shoulders hung low, more in exhaustion than calm, and the way his head tilted, brows curved when Dean turned like a fucking pussy and ran? No. Dean isn't capable of that. And he has only found one sure fix to issues like these. Alcohol.

The beer slides down so nicely, bitter and cold and Dean is in love with it and motions for another, adds the empty bottle to his collection.

He finishes a fourth. And a fifth. In the back of his mind he's surprised the surly bartender's still serving him.

That necklace, blue and cheap and plastic, is clutched tight in his fist, wrapped once around his knuckles.

Now Dean's yelling something. He's not sure what. Someone's yelling something back. Everything sort of swoops sideways and down and Dean can hear his own muffled 'oomf' as he hits the floor, sticky and cold. He can feel the groan grinding its way out of his chest and see lights above him and his stomach clenches before he throws up and he feels better. Looser. Calmer. His thoughts are colours and soft touches and he sees nothing but light and dark. It is wonderful.

Hands, rough and wide, are on his shoulders, pulling him up and throwing him outside and the concrete's colder than the floor inside. It seeps into his jeans and through his coat and he tries to decide how long a minute is.

They tick by, and Dean tries to count them, but they seem to be bounding just out of his reach like pesky little sheep and Dean think's it's been a fucking while and his free hand just clenches and his brain screams 'MORE' and fuck, Dean wants to please it, wants to fill the demand, and drink more, fill himself until he never recovers and he's this blissed-out forever and fuck him because _Cas_. Cas. Dean hears that name. Perhaps it comes from his own lips.

Lights.

Cold.

And then hands. A hand on his face. One on his shoulder. Ringing?

He throws up again.

Voices.

 _Cas_.

And Sammy.

Fuck. Sammy.

Dean needs more alcohol. His head swings around. He knows the bar's there. Almost there. Just out of reach. Dean tries to balance himself, attempts to stand, reaches blindly for the door that's six feet too far away, and the hand again is pushing him back and there's talking.

Dean breathes. It's all he hears, for a while. His own air shaking into and out of lungs that are only breathing because they have to, not because they want to, and then there's _loud_ and _red_ and Dean doesn't like it. His hands flail for a minute before landing successfully on his ears and his eyes screw shut and there's bumps pressing against his cheek. _Beads_. And then his hand shifts and he's holding them dear, softer, because they're special, and they make Dean want to cry and there are more hands on him. Lifting him. Dean tries to stop them. His body tenses and the fighting instincts that were beaten into him take effect and he's trashing and yelling and why can't they just fucking leave him where he was? Dean sees red and brown hair and glazed eyes and feathers and teeth and scythes and he _needs_ more alcohol and they need to understand this.

But Dean only manages to throw up again, more dry-heaving than anything else, and everything is white and rumbling and something stabs him in the arm. He manages a growl before everything is black and bliss and Dean is so fucking grateful he wants to cry because finally _finally_ he can _breathe_.

oOo

Dean tries to open his eyes. White and silver. Soft colours, soft sheets. _Pounding_ head.

His beads. Where are the fucking beads. Dean snaps into consciousness and his hands whip out, looking through blind space for that stupid necklace but with the movement comes deep, primal aching of muscles and organs and mind and Dean lies back. His eyelids are showing him movies, replaying nightmares and the white of the room turns into the white of Sammy's room at the nuthouse back a few years ago. And then the white is the white of Castiel's clothing once he got out, and it's Cas when he wasn't really Cas, but sadder and more real and the cream of the trim is the flat of the Blade. The _First_ Blade and now his sheets are stained red. The Blade was stained red. Like Dean's hands. His hands are dripping. Coated. Slick. One holding a scythe and one clutching black feathers and this is how Dean imagined it - the end. The future. Bloody and alone and dark and threatening.

It's not.

It's just lonely. And it hurts.

And Dean's head hurts. A lot. He is just buzzing ache and low sting.

Dean closes his eyes and decides to become blank. A piece of paper. A canvas. Only his mind is a cruel, sadistic artist and soon covers the canvas with thick dripping paint and screams and whimpers and the scent of death. Dean lives it, becomes its slave, and the sleep he uneasily falls into is characterized by the painful twitching of overly-taught muscles and cooling sweat on the back of his neck and the sound and taste of grinding teeth. Nails bite into his palms and his wrists and with heaving breaths he awakes and there's a man in white with a needle and he notices tubes in his arm and it starts all over again. Canvas.

oOo

Dean dreams of a feather.

This feather is different from the ones he usually sees. It isn't bloody and ripped out. It fell out. Graceful soft. And it was given.

This is not just a dream. It's a memory. And a good one, at that.

Two years ago, perhaps? Three? Maybe more. During one of the times Castiel was aloof. Didn't visit as much as he used to. Had bigger fish to fry, or something along those lines. Quiet, lonelier times for Dean. More thinking. Less talking. More worry, more stress, less sleep. A sick pattern.

Castiel did show up. Randomly, after weeks of silence and ignored prayers. But Dean didn't jump. He was expecting it, almost. Waiting for Cas, who, as pretty well the sole constant in Dean's life for near five years, always came back sooner or later.

It was in the Impala. Dean was driving alone, for a small reason. A supplies run. Bringing food and beer and reading material back to the Bunker after solid weeks of research and microwave dinners. Dean's thinking, deciding what to cook for dinner. Deciding what everyone will like best, how much to make. Ignoring the fact that he's planning for three, even though the third party's presence is becoming rarer and rarer as the days wear on. Humming to some old 'Slash' track playing on a fuzzy station.

And then there's that feeling in his chest. The warm pulse Dean feels milliseconds before Castiel arrives. He hasn't mentioned it to Sam. Never saw a need. It's a little warning. A split-second that makes a world of difference and when the car feels full like it hasn't for too long, Dean turns and flashes a sad sort of grin, eyes low, posture loose and submissive. Dean tries hard not to feel like a whore on call, being used whenever Cas feels like using him, but that's exactly what it is. And it bothers Dean way less than he thought it would.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean finds himself breathing fuller, freer, more at-ease than he's been in weeks, and it's like this worry he didn't even know he'd been harbouring just _slides_. Dean feels clarity.

"Hey, Cas." His voice is small, tired, free from the usual gruff and butch that Dean almost always feels he has to hide behind.

Castiel's message is short. Pretty much a 'hello' and an update, but Dean appreciates it, appreciates the infinite feeling driving like this brings, like he and Cas could go anywhere, as far and as long as they want, without worry or care or consequence.

And even after Castiel leaves Dean holds onto that peace for the rest of the drive, breathes fuller, and doesn't notice that gift lying where Castiel was until he moves to get out of the car.

It's a feather.

It's black and soft and as long as Dean's forearm. It's an oil spill taken form, as if silk and ink had married and created a new substance. It's smooth and pliant and shines blue and green and purple as the sun catches it and Dean immediately loves it.

Dean rushes in with the bags and the feather hidden inside his jacket and he stows it in a drawer in his room, along with his pictures and the little keepsakes he's been able to bring with him all his life.

Dean stares at it as Sam waits in the main room for him to start dinner. He can't stop looking at it. It's so beautiful. It feels special. Sacred. A secret gift shared from Angel to human and Dean is in awe of it. Castiel's never left him a feather before. And Dean feels like laughing and smiling and a shiver runs through him when he runs it along his skin.

Sam finds it months later and pulls it over his forearm and twirls it in the air and asks about it, and Dean has to act like Cas leaves him feathers all the time, sheds them like some dog, and Dean clenches his teeth and orders Sam to give it back, hand out expectantly, brows low. Sam smirks and hands the precious feather back to him, hand flicking and expression oozing attitude and smugness and Dean wants to growl at him and smooths the feather out and holds it precious and dear before putting it in the trunk of the Impala, hoping the new place is safer from prying eyes. He looks at it every time he reaches for a knife or a gun and knowing it's there fuels a ball of heat, like a little sun burning beneath his ribs, and it makes his mouth dry and his cheeks heat. A solid contentedness sits heavy in his heart and he can feel his pulse slow when he runs a finger along its centre.

Dean can't explain it and he doesn't want to. But the feather symbolizes something he can't - won't - think about too much and it's everything.

And then a month later Henry the Douche Grandfather from 19- _whatthefuckever_ steals it from the trunk for a time-travel spell and Dean has to act like he doesn't even care.

Canvas.

* * *

heyyy so i really appreciate any feedback you can offer. tbh i have no idea where this story is going so any suggestions are really helpful :) also even though we're two days from season 11, i will continue writing this AU


	7. March 12th

Dean wakes up. The room's white. He's in a hospital. Dean doesn't react to any of this. He feels dead. He sees the tubes in his arms and wonders if he almost was. If he died for a second. He wonders what they're pumping into him. He contemplates how lovely and lifeless he feels, no emotion, no pain, and wonders if the doctors will let him have more later. He stares at the machines, watching his heart pump because he can't feel it.

A nurse bustles in a minute later and her lips are tight and thin, like the bun on top of her head. She looks old and tired. She straightens his sheets and reads off clipboards and monitors.

"Nice to see you're awake. The doctor will be here momentarily." Her words are clipped and short. She doesn't look Dean in the eyes. Maybe Dean did something to her. Said something. Lashed out and slapped her sagging face in blind, drug-induced rage.

The doctor's just as plain as the nurse. Basic. Grey hair, white coat, grey words and grey tone. Everything colourless, lifeless, and Dean feels he fits in quite well with this theme. Grey and lifeless sounds lovely to him. The doctor sits in front of Dean, perching lightly on the edge of his bed, and stares at Dean for a minute, just breathing. Clipboard's tucked under his arm, hands folded neatly in his lap, lips tight and small. The doctor takes in a big breath and starts.

"You scared us back there, Dean. Very dangerous stuff you're playing with."

So he knows his name. Must of told him earlier, must've forgotten it along with how he got here, but Dean can guess why. Can remember that he lost count of shots at thirteen and beers at four. He remembers a loud bartender with rough hands and cold, wet ground. He remembers sad blue eyes and beads. Beads.

"Beads."

"What?" The doctor leans forward like a bird, neck craning, eyes squinting. His glasses flash white as they catch the overheads and it makes him look evil and fake, like some Japanese video game character.

"Beads." Dean repeats, deep voice booming around the room, and the doctor jumps a little. Dean looks around for them, trying not to seem frantic, but he honestly is. It's a panic attack. He's certain the only reason he's still functioning is because of the drugs. He can feel his heart now, feel the nerves in the pads of his fingers and his head's thick and stuffy and too quiet.

The doctor's nodding now, looking like an old man, getting up, hunched over, hands outstretched, head swivelling like a pendulum. "Beads," he mutters. "Oh yes, they're with your belongings." He pauses as if waiting for Dean to accept that as an answer and calm down. Dean stares at him until he realizes that it's not.

The doctor's still nodding as he leaves to get Dean's blue party beads. Then they're in Dean's hand and he fists them tightly and the pounding in his head and in his chest starts to slow. He breathes full and easy.

"Now, Dean, we can't seem to find a medical record for you…" The silence is loaded, tense. The doctor's mouth stalls, halfway to his next word. He doesn't meet Dean's eyes. "Do you have a history with mental illness?"

Dean immediately tenses. Mental illness. Those words are sneered by his father, spat like burnt coffee. John Winchester doesn't believe in mental illness. He believes in truth and vengeance and family. Physical illness, sure. Mental illness is code for crazy, and crazies belong in the nuthouse, no where else. No place for them in society, no cure, no prevention. Crazy is the only bona fide way to get out of the hunter life still alive. John Winchester believes in death before crazy. Crazy is weakness. Crazy is undignified. Winchesters don't suffer from things as petty as mental illness.

Dean realizes the question was repeated. Twice, he thinks.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean blinks his way through the fog of his own mind and shakes his head sharply. "No." He bites the word, jaw tense, posture straightening to soldier-like perfection. His eyes train forward, not really seeing anything. This is how John liked him: a perfect warrior. Quiet, obedient.

The doctor notices.

"Calm down, Mr. Winchester. Do you…" He's treading carefully, his tone light and casual. He's talking to a child. "Do you mind if we ask you to participate in some tests? Just cognitive ones. Maybe a bit of bloodwork."

Dean's standing up now. Winchesters don't suffer from mental illness.

"No. No." He's shaking his head, looking around for clothes, mind moving so fast, mind barely moving at all. All and nothing at the same time. Dean feels like he's swimming, everything slowed and lagging. It's not mental illness. It's not. The voices, the darkness, the pain and the fear. It's just stress. It's the aftermath of Sam's death - no, murder. It's just natural and Dean's been through it before and it'll pass like it always has. Life will go on and Dean will be tugged along with it until he's mercifully stabbed in an alleyway outside a shady bar. It just is. "No."

A nurse is rushing in. Another nurse. They're cornering him, moving in on him and all Dean thinks about is Nurse Ratched and her ridiculous breasts and mean eyes and he wonders if he's Chief or McMurphy and if they're using gas on him. He wonders how long he'll be here and if he'll be strong enough to break out of this hellhouse and if he'll make friends who are crazy too and if they'll hose him down and-

"Dean." He doesn't hear the doctor's voice, though. It's deeper and huskier and smooth even though it rumbles, which never really made sense to Dean. It's familiar as breath and Dean feels all the air leaves his lungs. He's lying down again and his fist is quaking from holding the beads so tight. His head whips over to look at them and they're flashing, glinting, and sometimes they're a blue that's painfully familiar, deep, Dean could get lost in it, wants to get lost in it and the wallpaper is that same petal pink of those lips: chapped, virginal lips, and that voice pours out of them, dribbles, escapes, as it hums, quiet, a pleased sound. Dean knows that sound. He's heard it before. He thinks he's caused it before and damn if that isn't the most satisfying thing in the world.

The doctor's mouth is moving and nurses are bustling and Dean thinks he can feel the moment the drug hits his blood and everything is black and bliss.

oOo

He lands with a bang. The angel. His body a thick, solid sound, deep, vibrations crackling across the floor. Dean's quick. Catches him, nearly. Spun around so fast his neck cracks. Dean has hands on him, on the angel, milliseconds after the sound pulses through the foyer of the bunker.

Things are hazy. Thick. Sam's not around. Head's full of cotton balls.

Dean's hands are sticky. Warm. Blood. Cas is out cold, head tipped back, throat long and still and pale. He's light in Dean's arms. Lighter than he should be, Dean thinks. Cas is a big guy. But the blood's just pouring out of him, from his back. It paints the floor pretty dotted patterns. Maybe that's why he feels so light. Almost no more blood left in him.

Maybe, being an angel, Cas' bones are hollowed, like a bird. Delicate, fine. Good for flying. Bad for fighting.

Dean's head is calm. He's got all the time in the world. His hands are efficient and sure. He's done this before: cared for the wounded and the sick. Been doing it all his life.

By the time they're in the bathroom the blood's running thicker, but slower. Must be coagulating. Cas must not be human, then. He's healing. That's good. He's waking now, a bit. Eyes open a little, sleepy and loose and his lips hang soft and full. Dean likes Cas' face like this. Makes things seem slower and simpler. Dean loves slower and simpler.

Cas is seated on the edge of the bathtub by warm, wide hands and they help him out of his blood-soaked coat and they pry at the tie that's too tight around his neck. They take time unfastening each button of the white - no, red shirt and slip it gentle off the angel's shoulders. Dean's almost surprised by his own gentleness, by the way his hands touch the tanned skin so softly, so light. Feathers of a bird or whiskers of a cat. Barely there at all, tickling and quick. He didn't know he was still capable of this. It's been throwing punches and packing bullets and reefing on shoelaces for so long Dean's nearly forgotten that hands can be used a different way - that they can soothe rather than hurt.

It's a revelation. They both stare at the man's hands, entranced by the contrast. Thick, broad fingers attached to red, scarred knuckles. Touches like fairies. Dean thinks they're beautiful. Cas agrees.

Dean turns the angel around once he's shirtless. Things are blurring at the edges in a calming way, like a good trip. Colours seem softer. Dean has little to no reaction at the site of the long, bloody gashes stretching down from each of the angel's shoulder blades. Wings ripped off, then, Dean decides. He can fix this. Fix Cas. God knows he's been trying to for years, never knew how or where to start.

He can start here. Dean gathers his usual wound-cleaning essentials. But the blood's still running from these hurts. Cas' back is slick with blood, some of it swirling all nice and pretty. He resists the urge to paint in it with the pads of his fingers - maybe write his name: claim Cas like he so wants to. Dean turns the taps and the bath starts filling, water hot and gushing. Steam curls up and Cas breathes it in, eyes shutting tiredly.

Cas looks old. Not ancient, like he is. Not a creature whose existence spans millennia. Not a being made on the Second Day. Just old. An aging man. Stiff bones, arthritis, migraines sometimes. Castiel looks like he needs to sleep. Dean understands. He's old, too. He aches. He cracks. Time seems short and so Dean lays a hand on the Angel's shoulder. Cas turns to him and opens his eyes, a silent, appreciative thank you written in his features.

He finishes undressing himself and gets in the bathtub and the water's so hot his skin raises red and angry but the little angel that's still left in him calms it and it returns to gold. He faces the wall and those lovely loose-wristed hands return and they pull a cloth dipped in the water over the hurts. Red swirls through the water until it's all pink and Dean keeps dabbing at the wounds. A few little downy feathers that were still attached at the root of his wings fall off and float. Dean plays with them a little, making them bob and twirl, dancing in the bloody bath.

Then the wounds are as clean as they can get and Dean presses the wet cloth against them until they soften. He starts stitching them shut. Probably useless. Cas' still got angel in him, but Dean wants to. Wants to feel like he's truly helping Castiel in every way he can. Not a sound drips from Cas' loose lips as Dean sews him up. He stares at the tiled wall of the bunker bathroom. Some tiles have little bluebells in their corners. They make Castiel feel young. He recalls the time period from which they are left over and he feels like it was not so long ago. And then he remembers that it was many years before Dean was born, before his parents were born, and he feels old again.

Dean finishes, clipping the loose threads. There. They look clean now, and less garish than before. They look like Castiel is cared for and Dean tried his best to make the stitches even and smooth. He tried not to tug too hard.

"Thank you, Dean." Cas' voice is a rumble and drags out his name. Chills pitter patter down Dean's neck, over his arms and back. Dean nods and when he meets the angel's eyes they're blue and glowing. Strength and heat and grace are leaking out of Castiel's pores, shining from underneath his fingernails, glowing through his teeth and pouring from his throat. "You've done your job."

Dean's heart swells with pride and he nods and bows his head. He knows. Castiel embraces him, pulls him close, a hand over the handprint that's seared on his flesh and the other on his forehead, pulling down to caress his cheek. Dean shivers as the grace courses through him on every level, every layer of his being, and feels true, untainted peace as everything fades to nothing.

oOo

Dean ignores the words of the doctor and the nurses. Catches a few things here and there, enough so he gets the gist of what they think is wrong with him. Malnutrition, sleep deprivation, 'obvious' signs of mental illness. And some nasty alcohol poisoning as the cherry on top. They try talking to Dean about it. He isn't seeing them, though, or hearing them. He's hearing the crackling sound Sam's hair made as it burned on the pyre, and he sees red and blue and petal-pink. He grunts a couple responses and soon enough the doctor gives up. Dean doesn't agree to any of the treatments the doctor offers him, doesn't allow any of the tests. He throws out the card with the numbers of the counsellors on it as soon as he leaves that Godforsaken place. He does accept sleeping pills, though. As many as they'll give him. He stuffs the orange bottle unceremoniously into his pocket and refuses to think about it or look at them more than he has to.

Dean checks his phone as he catches the bus to his apartment. He's written off the shitty little car as a lost cause and tells himself he'll steal a new one in a few days. Not like he's got big plans on going anywhere anytime soon. He huffs what may be considered the ghost of a laugh as he sees the ridiculous amount of calls left from Castiel. It makes his chest hurt a little, actually, and shifts the soft blues of the interior of the bus Dean sees into hazy reds and pinks. Dean thinks he smells smoke. Dean doesn't listen to all the voicemails, doesn't check when the first call was made or the last. He shuts it off and tilts his head back and loses himself in the rumble of the tires on pavement. It's the most comforting sensation he's felt in months. Behind his eyelids, a head rolls.

He takes the tiny pill with a swig of beer, setting the frosty bottle on the desk in the dark. He figures a little alcohol with the medicine won't hurt him too bad, and if it does, all the merrier. He opens the fridge as a reflex. He's not hungry. Hasn't been in a while. There's no food in there, anyway. Dean can't remember the last time he went grocery shopping.

He stares at his bed. Sits in it. Lays back. It feels over-used. He feels over sensitized, the sheets dragging too roughly in some places, settling too soft in others. He itches. It's too familiar and he hates it and wonders how sore his back would be if he slept in one of the wooden chairs. The bathtub, maybe. He thinks back to the few times he, Cas, and Sam would have to share two beds between them. Sam, being obviously the larger of the three, always complained about having to share. Both Dean and Cas took the bathtub a couple of times before they sucked it up and slept inches apart. Neither they nor Sam mentioned it if they ever noticed how Dean and Cas always seemed to wake up tangled. And only Dean and Cas know that somehow Dean always ended up the little spoon.

These thoughts make Dean ache and smile in an agonizing, sick combination. Then he feels guilt for smiling. He has no reason to smile. He killed his brother. He ran from the closest thing to family he has left, left him on the porch of a shitty bar in red lighting and local blues. Dean has no reason to smile. He takes another pill dry because no one's stopping him. He hums soft Metallica and his mind makes shapes in the stucco of the ceiling. Sleep comes swiftly in the quiet hours before dawn.


	8. March 15th

Dean wakes up hard for the first time in many months. He tells himself he doesn't remember the dream. It's the sleeping meds. They make weird shit happen. His head hurts and the muscles in his arms and back are tight and hot. Dean thinks about his erection. This used to be common for him, didn't it? And Sammy understood, and Dean would shuffle over to the shower and take care of business and that was considered a good morning. Dean looks reflexively to his left. There is no second bed and there is no Sam. Sometimes Dean can trick himself and make himself think that things are how they were three years ago and Sam is quietly researching at the desk in the corner. This ghost he creates comforts him, probably more than it should. Dean buries his face in his pillow. No. He throws an arm over his eyes and waits for it to leave.

He squeezes his eyes shut and dredges up the memories of what he used to think about to kill a hard-on. It was usually Sam in a dress, his hairy man legs sticking out the bottom of it, or his father reprimanding him for a job poorly done, or fires and all the ways to lure a ghoul. But the longer Dean's eyes are shut, the more clearly he sees another pair. Another pair of eyes. And they're wide and blue and sad and the eyelashes cling desperately to each other as if they're afraid they'll lose themselves and the eyes are wet and shiny. They flit away from Dean's and train to the ground. Dean can feel buzzing in the skin where Cas had touched him the few nights before and his throat is thick. The world is moving too fast again and the messages his mind's trying to bring to his attention are mixed and don't make sense. All his muscles are taught and he's too warm. Too fast, too hot, too quick. He starts to harden again in his boxers because now the eyes don't drop, they hold his gaze and pink lips are licked and fuck, this is just so _wrong_ but Dean doesn't know how to stop it and there's fire licking at the corners of everything and the soft wind of an empty field and Dean's in the shower before his clothes are off, water on cold and fast. He has no control. He's just grasping for something sure, something sturdy, an answer to all the ugly mess that is his life and he finally manages to force the eyes out of his mind, controlling and all-powerful like Big Brother or the billboard from Gatsby, all hidden meaning and depth, and then he's in the now. He is right now, in the shower, water streaming in rivulets down his spine and running off his nose, his head bent and reverent. He is a slave to the eyes, a slave to his mind and fuck if he likes it.

Throughout the next few days Dean's phone rings near-incessantly. Or buzzes with a text. The amount of messages left on his machine is stupid until it caps out, full, and no more can be left. The ringing doesn't stop. Soon Dean hears it at all hours, whether Cas is calling him or not. But whenever he starts thinking that maybe he should pick up, he starts thinking of what Cas will say. Probably something along the lines of _'I didn't know you were such a mess. I didn't know you were doing so poorly.'_ Or he'll say he's _worried_ about Dean - that Dean _needs_ someone or something, and that Castiel is willing to be that someone. Or maybe his voice will be quiet and sad, all betrayed-like, as if Dean left and is ignoring him because he no longer likes him, no longer wants him in his life. And then Dean would have to tell him that it's really the exact opposite. Dean's worried that Cas will speak and he won't be able to say anything in return and Cas will just become more hurt and this annoying game of cat-and-mouse will continue and never get anywhere.

Dean wishes Cas understood that Dean keeping him at a distance is the most selfless thing he can manage at the moment. Dean wishes Cas understood that he is a mess, and is taking too many sleeping pills with too much beer, and wants to keep Cas out of it. Even if memories of the Angel and memories of Sam are the only things Dean thinks of, the only things he aches for, dreams of, night and day.

The ringing doesn't stop until a Thursday.

Dean marks the end of his relationship with Castiel with a beer and two more pills.

oOo

On a Saturday Dean dreams of Castiel, breaking the six-day streak of dreams illustrating ways in which Sam has died, each just a little more detailed and painful than the last.

It's a vivid dream, in which Dean is fully aware of his body and Castiel's, and in which his body and Castiel's are becoming one.

On Sunday Dean dreams of Castiel on his knees, washing Dean's feet. His fingers wrap themselves in the Angel's thick black hair and he cries. Castiel keeps his head bowed and lips shut the whole time.

On Monday Dean dreams of words, flaccid and pale in comparison to the overwhelming aching, cracking feeling in his chest at Cas' voice repeating, over and over, "Your pain matters."

The following Tuesday, Dean picks up the phone.

oOo

The coffee shop Dean drives towards is nondescript. The Nova's bald tires magnify every stone they hit, whirring loudly beneath Dean's seat, jarring Dean's sore joints. The shop's walls are faded brick, its sign yellowed and chipped. The parking lot holds a few cars that match the exterior and Dean's own. Dean doesn't feel much calmer than he did the last time this happened. He can actually see Castiel through the front window, though, and that quells his nerves some. The Ex-Angel's eyes are shut and his posture is straight but soft and his hands are clasped quietly. He looks familiar and Dean likes the peace and calm in his face. No pain, no anxiety or fear or hurt. Peace. Castle deserves peace.

The inside of the coffee shop is quaint and tight, its green leather booths near touching. Dean's thankful Cas chose one out of the way, in the corner. He stops in the entranceway for a little and watches the back of Castiel's head. He wonders if he's listening to music - a song having burrowed its way into his head to stay. He wonders what music Cas likes, what music gets stuck in his head. He wonders if Angels ever get songs suck in their heads. The thought makes Dean sad and then he wonders whether Castiel has ever gotten shivers down his spine, pleasure forcing a smile to his lips, or whether he's ever paced back and forth needlessly while talking on the phone or wiggled his toes in sunshine and smiled at them. He realizes Castiel is barely a child, so new is he to human practices and experiences. And yet here he is, giving up a life he could have easily made for himself in exchange for a lonely, used-up old man. Dean decides he much prefers this post as a sondering observer to being a participant in the painful daily activities that come with consciousness. Dean joins Castiel wordlessly at his table.

Dean doesn't meet Castiel's eyes, even though he looks up earnestly from his place as Dean sits, and Dean can physically feel Cas' posture tightening.

"Hello, Dean."

The words are ancient, timeless, their somber timbre as old and familiar as the wind. The words grace over Dean and he closes his eyes and doesn't open them again until Castiel speaks again.

"How are you, Dean?"

Dean shivers at his name. The way Castiel says it has always been his favourite, save when he was young and Sam said his name in a way so full and deep Dean knew that someone loved him and needed him. It was comfort in a place where comfort was scarce.

Dean nods, not yet trusting his own voice.

"I called."

And now the Angel's voice is small and weak and wavering and Dean whips his head over to look through the window because there is no way he's looking at Cas' face right now and his fingers drum his thigh and he wants some sleeping pills to calm himself. He can feel his heartbeat and the rush of his blood. It's guilt. He recognizes the sour taste of it in the back of his throat and the pressure it puts behind his eyelids.

Dean just nods again and his jaw clenches.

Castiel reaches a hand towards his folded arms but, like a wild animal, Dean jerks away. He regrets it as soon as it happens and the hurt look on Cas' face makes Dean wither inside.

He coughs and pats Cas' hand, still hanging halfway to his own, and meets his eyes for a second before awkwardly refolding his arms. Dean clears his throat and speaks as an apology.

"I know, Cas. I-I'm sorry."

And Castiel's eyes are wide and he nods quickly in understanding and looks damn near reverent, visibly hanging on to every syllable. Dean shivers minutely and closes his eyes again. He smells burnt hair and the corners of everything are red.

Castiel nods and is quiet. An hour or so is spent in quiet thought filled with long, shy glances at forearms and knuckles and the secret assessments of facial hair and haircuts and bags under eyes and the care of fingernails. They read each other like childhood novels rediscovered, the fascination and earnest dusty, but not forgotten. Never forgotten. No detail is missed until Dean feels as if he knows Castiel as well again as he did three years ago, when long touches and glances were not so uncommon or uncomfortable or unwelcome. He also feels as if Castiel knows him even better than he did, peering through all the cracks and crevices he's trying to hard to cover up. Dean feels exposed and bare and vulnerable, an infant left out in the cold, and his arms wrap tighter around himself.

Castiel gets out of his seat and looks to Dean to follow and he does. Castiel stands, a quiet guard, as Dean gets into the shit Nova and tries to start it once, twice, and three times. The engine coughs and wisps of smoke escape from under the hood. Dean stares at the dashboard, seeing unblinking eyes and smoke coming from somewhere else. This smoke is sweet. Familiar. Castiel taps on the window, waking Dean from his reverie, and points over his shoulder to an equally beat-up black Lincoln which makes his heart ache for Baby in a way it hasn't for a long time.

Dean gathers his meager possessions from small places in the Nova and quietly follows the other man to the car that makes him smell hot asphalt and clear blue skies and wind through wheat fields. Everything looks yellow. Nostalgia rips through Dean but he comes up dumb.

* * *

Yes Hello: comments/suggestions, good/bad, it's all appreciated. Thank you, lovelies.


	9. April 2nd

Dean is silent in Castiel's car. It smells like him, he realizes, and something inside him twists painfully when he notices a cardboard box at his feet, a couple beat-up tapes knocking around the bottom. Dean wants to look at them - read the labels taped on them and written in smudged blue ink. An air freshener dangles from the mirror but it's faded pale green and doesn't smell, even though the wind coming through the open windows makes it dance and spin. Castiel is quiet and his hands are soft and sure on the wheel. Dean finds himself looking at them more and more and can feel the anxiety building slowly in his chest even though looking at Castiel makes him want to feel calm. But the more he looks at him the more he sees blood and smoke, just flashes in front of his vision, reminding him subliminally that all is not better. All is not okay. He is not okay. Cas isn't either because he's here with Dean instead of finding work or a home or love. Dean shakes his head and turns away and looking out the window like this is so timeless, endless, that when he sees that they're approaching the city, strange words he didn't come up with leave his tongue, and he's saying that Castiel doesn't have to take him home, and he thinks to himself that home isn't his shitty, dark apartment, but it's in an old black car with Castiel and tapes in a cardboard box. Dean clears his throat.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asks, eyes flickering over to meet Dean's for a half-second. Dean knows he's surprised. He wasn't expecting it. Dean wasn't either.

Dean thinks for a second then chuckles, the sound dry and harsh in the base of his throat, rare, forgotten. "You ever play Left, Right, Onward, Cas?" The side of Dean's mouth quirks up and it feels like it's gonna crack.

Cas' eyes shift over again and there's a light in them that's equally sad as it is happy. "No, Dean."

The car purrs and rumbles at a stoplight.

"Onward." says Dean, throat closed and choking.

The car's eating up gravel along a forgotten road foreign to the both of them. "Tell me about this game, Dean. Tell me its history."

Dean shuts his eyes and breathes deep through his nose and misses the dusty country air. He used to take dirt roads and gravel roads just for the thrill of it, much to the dismay of Sam, who often said punctuality was key. The thought makes Dean's stomach ache and roll.

"Its history begins with me and Sam, I guess." Dean closes his eyes for a second, sending a prayer to an absent deity at the mention of his brother's name. Dean realizes he hasn't said Sam's name aloud in months. The single syllable is weighty and soft on his tongue. Loaded. Too much. Dean's not sure he likes the taste of it. Disloyalty. The thought fills a part in him that had been emptying.

"But we didn't make up this game, Cas." Dean's voice adds, quiet and small. "Lots of people play it. I don't remember who introduced it to us, though. Maybe Bobby." Another name, dusty and underused, that tastes sour and deep. Dean's sentences are short, full pauses resting between them, poignant and sad and painfully real. "Once Dad taught me to drive I used to take Sam out for rides. Dad would be working; investigating or researching or interrogating or something and Sammy -" Dean's voice hitches and cracks. He clears his throat, swiping a trembling hand over his face. He hisses a curse under his breath. "Sam and I-"

A hand's on Dean's thigh and this time he doesn't flinch away, but he bows his head and breathes through the catch in his throat. He clears it again and lifts his eyes to the flat, yellow horizon, the road they're travelling slicing the vast fields cruelly in half.

Dean shakes his head, eyes seeing not only wheat fields, but meadows with a pyre at their centre. The smell of burning hair fills his nostrils. "S'okay, Cas. It's a happy memory." Dean awkwardly pats the wide, tan hand on his thigh and breathes deep.

With a big breath, Dean tries again. Castiel tears his eyes away to look back to the road. He's happy Dean isn't looking at him. He knows his face looks sad.

"Sam and I'd just… go. We would leave the motel, tank full o' gas and just go. Just drive. Out there." Dean gestures to the seemingly endless road ahead. "Only stopped for crappy roadside fry trucks and ice cream stands. Listen to my favourite album on repeat. Smelled like hot gravel and country wind. Sammy liked stopping at fruit stands run by old farm wives. He said the fruit smelled and tasted better when he saw the people who grew it." Dean's silent for a few minutes and Castiel doesn't push him, doesn't make a sound, forces his eyes to stay focusing ahead. Tears burn them and his throat feels swollen.

When Dean starts again, a bittersweet smile's tugging at his mouth and his brows are pulled high and sad. "We'd find all these crazy places playing Left, Right, Onward. Every time we'd reach a crossroads I'd ask Sam 'left, right, or onward' and he'd say the first thing that popped into his head and that's the direction we'd go." Long silence, weighty and heady. "We got pretty damn lost a few times." Clearing of the throat. "Ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere more than a few times. Boy did that get a rise out of Dad." Dean's voice trails off with a humourless chuckle and then his face is closed and distant.

Castiel spares a glance at him, waits a few moments, and then speaks softly. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean nods but doesn't speak and stays quiet for a long while after.

Castiel breaks the silence when he announces he needs gas and Dean nods. The ex-Angel side-eyes him and notices his straight posture, his composed features and relaxed hands. Dean doesn't seem haunted at the moment. No cagey, barely-contained fear and grief pouring out of his eyes, the set of his mouth, his hands and posture. Castiel lets out a small breath, feeling a string loosen in his chest. His eyes return to the road and he basks in the ease of their silence.

After an undetermined amount of turns and sign-reading, the car coughs to a halt at a country gas station, the pavement framed with fields of cattle. Castle unbuckles his seat belt and jumps when Dean's hand is on his own, gentle and calloused and scarred like he remembers it so vividly in his dreams.

"Cas, I can get this." The man meets his eyes and they're wide and earnest but the pain behind them, the guilt and shame, is not so easily hidden so Castiel just nods and his hands drop.

He watches Dean climb out of the car, the movement so natural to him, the grace in his joints and limbs making Castiel's gaze trail after him, long and lazy, until he disappears inside the barred store. The sun is starting to set, painting everything yellow and soft and Castiel sets his crossed arms out the open window and lets his chin rest on them. He shuts his eyes and hot, sweet-smelling wind plays with pieces of his hair, blows so tenderly across his cheeks. Like this, with the smell of Dean in the passenger seat, and the tang of gasoline in the air, Castiel can forget about everything, nearly. Here there are no problems, no life-and-death, no horrors and fears and nightmares. Castiel can feel a purr work its way through his throat and suddenly he feels so sad, so mournful for the life lost and life wasted and the pain Dean had to go through in his voluntary exile and Cas just wishes to God Dean had let him find him sooner, had let him pet his hair and talk soft to him and hold him like he needed and Cas wants to cry. He wants to cry for himself and Sam and the unjustness of life but mostly he wants to cry for Dean.

The birds sing sweetly to him until the rustle of worn jeans and the solid click of hiking boots rouse him. Dean's staring at him, his face mirroring Castiel's own bittersweet sadness, though his eyes are conveying it more poetically than Castiel's words ever could.

Cas blinks up at the man from his resting place on his forearms and they watch each other with grieving looks until Dean climbs back into the Lincoln. Castiel doesn't move and Dean doesn't ask him to. Dean understands. He can smell the wind too, and appreciate the golden light that marks the dying of the day and the birds practicing their funeral songs. So he shuts his eyes and they sit like that a long while, until the yellow turns to orange and then blue, and the wind picks up a chill and the birds go to sleep.

They chase the sun long after it's set, where trees turn to nothing but black cut-outs against deepening blue. The country houses have lights on in living rooms and bedrooms, the occasional technicolour wavering of television light reflecting off darkened windows. There are no streetlights this far into cow country, no 24 hour supermarkets and dirty, loud bars and strip clubs. Dean likes this. Likes the dark, the all-encompassing magnitude of it. Dark over this hill, dark over the next. Dark behind them and dark up above. It feels like a womb, safe and swaddling and warm. And Castiel. Dean likes that too. Falls in love easily with the comfort of hearing another human's breath. Of being able to touch another's hand to get their attention, to look earnestly at them and say 'left', as if he has nothing deeper to express. And Castiel never pries, never asks for more or stares at him or touches him too harshly and Dean feels forever grateful towards him for that.

When they're passing what looks like an abandoned school Castiel pulls over and Dean doesn't ask why. He's trusting Cas. He's trusting him. The thought makes Dean's gut twist and he forces himself to take it as a positive reaction. He pushes the red at the corners of everything away and tells himself the smoke he's smelling is bonfire smoke. Nothing more. There is only goodness here. He with Castiel. There is only goodness.

Cas parks and gets out of the Lincoln and Dean follows close behind as Cas moves quietly over the pavement until he reaches the back of the low brick building. There's a rusty ladder of five or six rungs bolted primitively into the siding and Dean follows Castiel up without question. Dean notices for the first time, looking up as Castiel hauls himself over the edge with the grace of a cat, that he's not wearing his trench coat. For some reason this strikes panic in Dean, and he feels the familiar clenching of his chest and racing heart and pounding ears and grinding teeth. It's all becoming a lot, too much, all of a sudden, and he wants sleeping pills and alcohol.

Dean hoists himself up the ladder in two huge steps and tries not to seem like he's panicked, like he's rushing over to meet the ex-Angel where he's standing on the flat, undisturbed gravel that makes up the surface of the roof.

"Cas," Dean breathes, praying he doesn't sound as desperate and stressed as he thinks he does.

Castiel turns to Dean and the look in his eyes is so soft, so open, that it catches Dean off guard, hits him like a punch to the stomach, and he turns away, forcing breath past the lump in his throat.

"Cas," he says again and Castiel keeps looking at him and nods, mouth soft and full like it always is. "Cas, where's your trench?"

Castiel smiles at that, but it looks like a sad smile, and like it hurts him a little. His eyes fall from the stars to the gravel like all his brothers and sisters and he himself and he kicks a couple stones first before answering, voice low and rumbling. It pulls a shiver down Dean's spine.

"I didn't think it suited me anymore. I… outgrew it." He doesn't seem satisfied with the words he finds, grimaces as they leave his lips, and turns away from Dean.

Dean returns favour and doesn't ask for more. His heart is slowing, his blood quieting in his ears, and his hands stop shaking. He watches Castiel like this, from behind, watching his hair as the wind picks it up and plays with it, watching his sweater catch on his hips and shoulders and Dean thinks Cas is skinnier than he used to be, watching his hands hang soft and useless at his sides, stiller than Dean's have been in months, watching his posture, the curve of his spine and set of his shoulders and ribs and neck that point to exhaustion more than relaxation.

Dean steps up to stand beside Castiel, their feet even on the edge of the roof, and they watch the stars and take turns watching each other and they breathe in tandem until their noses and ears are red and stinging.

An hour later Dean and Castiel are in a parking lot of a hotel just off of the highway. The neon of the hotel and of the neighbouring burger joint are their only sources of light. The Lincoln is off except for the radio, and old songs are playing softly. Dean and Castiel are laying back in their seats, eyes closed except for when they turn to look at the other. Dean lets Castiel look at him all he wants and Castiel returns the favour, allowing quiet observation without comment or judgement. Dean thinks he and Cas are probably better at expressing themselves and reading each other with body language rather than words. Like Dean sees the yearning Castiel has for the stars in his eyes when he looks up at them, and the fondness Castiel still harbours for him in the turn of his mouth and brows. Dean can read the tiredness in his spine but the comfort and ease in his fingers and palms. He can read the sadness and care in his voice when he names all the constellations and he allows Castiel's voice to relax his muscles and calm his mind until he feels like jelly.

"Orion is my favourite." Castiel offers, staring out the windshield as Dean stares at him.

"Me too."

Castiel glances over at him, a little grin quirking his lips. He blinks at Dean before his eyes fall and then return to the sky. The Angel hums along to the song playing on the radio for a bit before the soft hums turn to singing, all gentle syllables and breathy pauses. His voice rumbles over the tune, breaking in places where the song rises, growling nearly where it lowers. Some words aren't even sung, aren't even said, are just hummed, pure, quiet notes, smooth as good coffee, and Dean finds himself hanging on to every sound, eyes wide and earnest and damn near reverent as they follow the subtle dance of Cas' lips and eyelashes. Soon Castiel glances over to Dean and smiles but doesn't stop singing and it makes Dean's chest clench and he realizes suddenly that Cas is the only person he has left on this Earth. It is Dean and Cas. It is only Dean and Cas. And yet Dean marvels at how lucky he feels, at how despite only having one person, he feels like he has everything he needs, everything in the whole fucking world.

"You have a nice voice, Cas." His words are thick and deep. He forces himself to hold the ex-Angel's gaze. Castiel smiles again and Dean's heart thuds. He ignores it.

"I was an Angel, you know. We were made for singing."

Dean shakes his head in disbelief and keeps on staring and Cas keeps on staring and keeps on singing and Dean wants to cry.

When Castiel speaks again his voice is soft and quiet in a way Dean has only heard a handful of times before. "Have you ever felt like… life is no longer for you?"

Dean immediately tenses. They're not supposed to talk about things like this. Dean doesn't want to. He wants superficiality and pretending and turning blind eyes. He wants forgetting and ignoring and doesn't Cas get that? Haven't they been doing this the whole time? Dean feels his blood rushing and roaring in his ears and hears crackling among it. But he swallows and begs the calm and the quiet to return to him and steadies himself in the angel's irises and clears his throat.

"Yeah." The pause is pregnant but easy, heady in its vastness and possibility. "Cuz I know life is for the living… and I know that inside I'm already dead." Dean can't meet Cas' eyes now. Can't be prodded as deep as they prod him for fear of what Castiel will find.

"Dean-"

Dean clears his throat again and stares out the window, can feel eyes boring into him and instead of them making him feel safe they make him feel like prey and things are moving so fast again he thinks the sky is spinning and his hands are bloody and black feathers are everywhere but those eyes are still on him, piercing him, and it hurts. Is there a voice? Is it his voice? Calling, muted and far-away. The world is moving too fast and the car's too small and Dean can't breathe. More feathers, more smoke, the high keening of a scythe through air, burning hair, metallic. Hands are on him. Grasping him, choking him, killing him. He wants to let them but instincts beaten into him long ago make him fight and now he's sure at least some of the sounds are coming from him, can feel them ripping from his throat, pounding in the air. Dean's fighting for oxygen and sense and if the everything could stop fucking spinning it'd be a hell of a lot easier to tell where he is, who he's with because he can't fucking remember but there are more hands and fingers and warmth and weight. Dean stretches as far away as he can but he's constricted and his vision slips to red and then everything is no more.

* * *

Hey everyone, I really appreciate feedback and such! Have a lovely evening :)


	10. April 3rd

Dean awakes to muted colour and gentle smells. There's some blue, dark and sleepy, to the left. Blue and black. Bruises. Low ache and healing like galaxies. Grey to his right. Not grey like the colour, though, grey like the light before morning touching still things.

He blinks and then shuts his eyes and listens to the breath entering and leaving his lungs. He lets his thoughts seep into his veins, travel through the rest of his body, and he takes account of things. He aches, a little, like he was sleeping funny, but nothing's hurt. Nothing's broken. His toes wiggle, sharp cracks of their adjusting bones ringing through the space he's occupying. His hips let off soft scraping sounds as the fabric holding them shifts. Even his eyelashes make the smallest feather-like sounds against his cheeks as they blink. He's whole. He's safe.

Dean breathes again and this time notices the smell, heeds it. It's… not his apartment. No stale clothing and bitter tang of alcohol, no old air and musty carpet. It's fresh. Clean. And it smells of…

 _Cas_

The word leaves Dean's throat like a caught exhale, and he jumps when a figure in the shadows moves and suddenly Dean's not in the present, but he's years in the past and he's in a shitty motel and he's used to waking up to an Angel watching over him, used to those baby blues being the first thing he sees in the morning and last thing at night. Used to proud, defiant posture and the muted colour pallet that makes up his Angel.

But now is not then. And Dean knows that, and Dean doesn't know why the Angel is here with him now, is sitting near the… couch… that he slept on, doesn't know why everything smells like the Angel's subtle scent, like honey and wind and exhaust. Dean starts to panic. His heart races, his hearing cuts out to feature the roaring of his own blood instead-

But a hand is on his shoulder, in a painfully familiar way, and the shape of the Angel looms above him and the eyes damn near glow in the low lighting, but they're not fierce or powerful; they're sad and tired and quiet, and they make Dean calm and still.

"Cas," he mutters again, eyes finally adjusting, and black and blue turns to shades of grey and brown.

"Dean," Cas rumbles in place of a greeting, voice dragging through the air.

It sends a shiver down Dean's spine. He's only heard it that deep a handful of times, mostly when Cas was weak or drained or human or some combination of the three and sleep overtook him and he'd wake, bleary-eyed and cranky. Cas' sleep voice was rare and precious to Dean in those times, catalogued quickly and tucked away in parts of his mind he's often afraid to visit. The thought softens Dean and hurts, achy and low and morose.

He sits slowly and the Angel quickly compensates, gives him space, sits in a chair across from him. They're quiet for a few minutes, Castiel observing Dean, Dean observing his surroundings. It's the living room of an apartment. Wood floors near glow as the moonlight paints them, cracked leather furniture surrounds him, a low wood table to his left, hallway to his right. A wide window tells him they're on a higher floor. The stars look kindly and fading. To the East the black sky's giving way to blue. Dawn is on her way.

Castiel watches Dean survey his living room, eyes blinking and wide like Bambi. Dean's fisting the blanket that was draped over him earlier, though he doesn't seem to realize it. His sock feet are crossed, toes curling against the chill of being outside the warmth of the blanket. He looks innocent. A child. Untainted and pure. The thought makes Castiel's chest hurt.

Castiel breaks the silence when Dean's eyes leave the window to meet his own. There's more understanding in them now. They seem older again, and they're masking confusion. Castle breathes deep, tentative. His hands quiver where they rest on his flannel-clad thighs.

"You scream in your sleep." His gaze is hard, demanding, though he starts to fidget. He wants to reach out to Dean, to touch him.

He can hear Dean swallow and his eyes flit away from Cas' for a second before returning, harder and further away.

"What time is it?" Dean's voice is soft and gruff and crackling. It's short, deflective.

"Five." Castiel answers without breaking their gaze.

Dean looks out the window again over the city and the light starts to catch the smog in the air.

"How did I get here?"

"You passed out in my car. I didn't know what else to do so I brought you here." Cas wants to continue, wants to ask about the panic attack that seemed to overwhelm Dean to the point of unconsciousness, wants to mention the mumblings of his name, wants to tell him that at one point tears ran down his cheeks and his face looked so pained and anguished that all Cas wanted to do was force him awake and tell him he's safe and loved and hold him and stroke his hair, but for fear of setting him off, left him on the sofa draping blankets over his shivering form. Cas doesn't want to mention that he sat there all night watching the man and thinking and fighting back tears a few times himself, breathing through catches in his throat.

"Oh." Is all the ex-Angel gets in return, and he's okay with it. He didn't expect much more. The thought frightens him a little. He doesn't want to become bitter. Dean doesn't deserve, doesn't need bitterness. Not now, not in the future.

"Would you like tea?" Castiel asks, trying to catch the man's gaze. The man shakes his head. Castiel tries again after a moment. "Would you like to sleep?" Dean takes a moment before nodding, pouting a little, eyes cast low, like an overtired child, and thinking of Dean as a child makes Castiel hurt.

His voice is softer now, grinding through the air like sandpaper in gentle fingers. His eyes remain low, submissive, bashful. "I could tell you a story."

"A bed-time story?" Dean confirms a moment later, his timbre low and unsure. Castiel nods so Dean does too.

They share a soft, tired look of understanding and shyness before Castiel takes a deep breath and begins.

"In the beginning, Death and God were comrades. They worked together, you could say, and each enjoyed their job and understood their purpose, and they both were good." Castiel pauses, looks up, checks for Dean' approval. His eyes are shut, though, and his posture is rigid and tall, so Castiel just continues. "When God created Man, He made sure that Death understood that his job was to return any of God's children to Him when they became too injured or sick or old, so God could continue taking care of his precious souls for the rest of eternity in Heaven. God did not create Mankind with eternal suffrage in mind, nor did He ever think that Mankind would come to resent Death. In the beginning, it was understood that life on Earth could be beautiful, but life in Heaven would always be magnificent. People in that time were not afraid of Death. It was welcomed and celebrated, just like birth.

"But Free Will was important to the New Peoples, and God granted them with the gift. As years passed and Faith began to wane, a fear of Death grew, spreading among the populations like disease. Stories got around, each farther from the truth than the last; stories of eternal Purgatory, of eternal Hell, of the Endless Cycling of Life, and finally, of Complete Nothingness. God was sad for those who chose to believe these stories, for those who rejected his promise of eternal Heaven and used their distrust of Him as an excuse to Sin against Him more and more. Soon the number of people turning away from Him nearly outnumbered the faithful, and that was when God knew something had to be done. An incentive program, if you will.

"God sent legions of Angels to tell the current and future Prophets the news so they could spread it to the corners of the Earth. Based on one's birth-bestowed talents, God would grant every person a 'parting gift' at the time of their Death to say goodbye to their loved ones and to the Earth. It was to be a regal, dignified, and glorious departure, honouring the life of each and every soul as they returned to the Father. Scholars were given the Moon for a night, to shift and control the waves as they wished. Scientists were given the Stars to shoot across the sky and let fall in view of their loved ones. Gardeners were given the Sun to help grow their beautiful funeral flowers. Poets and philosophers were given the Clouds for a day, to have dominion over the moods of the nations. Musicians were given a thunderstorm, to compose farewell ballads. And artists were given a sunset, to paint their final masterpiece. All in hopes that His People would regain their faith in Him, and understand the Glory and Honour that comes with such a gift.

"God's efforts fell short, and numbers of Believers barely shifted, but He still honours his promise." The Angel's gaze is morose and ancient. His brows are upturned in angst at looking in the man in front of him. "Look at the stars, Dean." he goads. "Realize that tonight they're arranged specially in a way that conveys someone's last goodbye. Realize the enormity… the intimacy of them."

Castiel's voice trails off. He woefully eyes the stars.

Dean opens his eyes, lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Dean feels calm, and old, and sad, and at peace. He thinks this must be what Castiel feels like all the time. It fills Dean with a deep pity for the Angel, for the pain he must have caused him, for the strife Dean knows he placed in the other man's heart. And through this sympathized anguish, the empathetic clenching of his heart, unrealized furrowing of the brows, a tiny part of Dean wants to get better. For him. For Castiel, though he knows he'll never say it aloud. Dean wants to be better, because Dean hurting equals Castiel hurting, he realizes, and the thought stings as much as it enrages him. More pain that's his fault. More hurt that he caused. More soot on his soul. Dean wants to hate Castiel for it, for the guilt that washes over him, but he knows it's futile. He doesn't hate him. Can't, even if he tried. He hates himself, really. He wants to hate Castiel for not hating him as well. Traitor.

As Dean's thoughts sour, he can feel his face twist with distaste. With harsh breath, he grabs Cas' attention, his head snapping from the window to stare at Dean. Dean takes a second, nervous, fidgeting, before being able to spit out the words, "You should take me ho-" He chokes. Clenches his teeth. "Back. Take me back."

The silence is palpable, the pain obvious in shadowed blue eyes. Castiel struggles in pulling his eyes away from Dean's, swallowing thickly and starting to tremor. Cas tries to stop it, tries to command his hands into behaving, sitting nicely on his lap, but they refuse and he has to clench them and work his fingers and wring his wrists for fear of losing control any further. He's stronger than this. He understands Dean. He's healed, and now he needs to heal Dean. It's okay. Dean will be okay. So Castiel forces, "Okay, Dean." because the words are familiar and roll easily off his tongue.

Dean is silent now, too. Castiel can see how hard his mind's fighting itself, can see how tortured and conflicted he is in his eyes. Dean is fighting, grappling, tooth and nail, it looks like. His eyes flit ceaselessly between a spot on the floor and Castiel's own and his lip is chewed until it's red and bruised and creased. Castiel can't stop looking at it, at the angered swell of flesh, at the indents where his teeth continue returning to worry at it until it looks ready to burst and bleed. All Castiel can see is Dean destroying himself and it makes him feel ill.

And then Dean talks, and his voice is so small and anxious Castiel nearly misses it. "don't wanna go."

The ex-Angel barely stops his face from crumpling in relief and his shoulders sag and a breath punches from his lungs because he grumbles "me too." and then Dean has hands on him, quick as wild rabbits, and his grip is bruising, one hand on Cas' shoulder, one where neck turns to chest. But Dean doesn't move any further, doesn't seem to know what to do, what he wants. He pulls slightly, leaning in, pushes slightly, hovering back, hurts the Angel where fingertips dig in. Their eyes are locked tight, and Cas' hands find Dean's shoulders as well and they stay embraced, joints solid and painful, holding one another at slight distance. They share looks between them, of confusion and desperation and fear and hope and sadness. Dean changes from worrying his lip to clenching his jaw till his teeth hurt, the muscles in his back so tight they start to twitch.

"Stay." Cas' voice grinds through the space between them. "With me."

With sad, high brows and trembling lip, Dean nods, quick and short and violent. And then Castiel can see the question there, in his eyes, understands what he's asking for, and so he pulls him in, resting head on crook of neck. Dean meets him with wild acceptance and immediately gathers Cas in his arms and pulls him into his chest so their hearts are as close as possible. He lets out a few choked sounds, overwhelmed completely, and things are moving very fast again, blood rushing in his ears, nerve ending on high alert, ears ringing, but it's different this time because he doesn't want to curl up on the floor, alone, until it passes, because fuck this is so much better. Dean needs Castiel. Needs to keep holding him like this and not think about it or anything else, just needs to be with him, in his arms, until his heart slows and he can press normal breaths out of his lungs.

Dean's arms force a sound out of Castiel, not a moan, but almost, and that sound brings Castiel back, and he realizes he's shaking, muscles trembling from how tightly they're coiled. That's when he tries to pull out of Dean's arms, but at the small movement backwards, Dean seems to cow, losing all confidence, and he releases his hold so fast Castiel's muscles ache. Dean sits in front of him, blanket haphazard around his waist, hands held awkwardly halfway between them, eyes so wide and unsure and worried, and the Angel feels so much pity for him. He can't hold his gaze. Castiel feels emotions bubble so thick in the back of his throat he wants to choke on it, and he stands and offers a hand to the damaged man in front of him. Dean doesn't take it, and in a second his expression closes off to become the guarded , haunted thing Castiel was almost used to. But he still stands, and looks to the Angel for his next move.

Castiel's eyes flicker. Once to the door - tempting, cowardly. He wants time. A part of him wants to be alone to think and to figure things out, next moves, strategies. And once towards his bedroom - indulgent, dangerous. He also wants Dean. To be close to him, to keep him in his sights… to touch him, perhaps, sometimes. Cas blushes at the thought, eyes turning away from the man, bashful.

But with a final, decisive breath, Castiel fills his chest and leads Dean to his kitchen.

"You need a good breakfast, Dean."

* * *

Hey, everyone. Thanks so much for reading, questions/comments/etc. are always much appreciated!


	11. April 3rd part 2

Castiel's kitchen is small, cozy, and dark. There's another wide window above the sink that makes Dean feel as if they're in the highest tower of a fairytale castle. He knows he's the damsel in distress and he misses who he used to be. Light explodes from one corner and Castiel's highlighted by the fridge light and Dean sees Castiel how he used to be, all power and Holy brightness and goodness and warmth. Dean's sad for the both of them.

The once-Angel turns to Dean after getting out eggs and butter and butcher paper-wrapped packages, brows high and sincere. "You can go take a bath if you'd like, Dean. Breakfast will be ready when you return." And his tone is pure sincerity and care and Dean revels in it, feels guilty, though, because Castiel's tone is devoted to the point of being servant-ish, and discomfort curls in his gut. Cas is not a servant, his or otherwise. Dean knows. Dean knows. And somehow their exchanges still always end with Castiel pledging himself to Dean.

Dean works his jaw and nods curtly, blood hot and telling him to exit the situation, end the conversation, leave before Castiel starts saying things, confessing things that make Dean blush and fidget and stammer.

He moves through the room he slept in, takes in the cracked leather furniture once more, now sees the potted plants perched on every surface and table. Spider plants and ferns and trailing ivy and delicate orchids in one corner, barely more than silhouette against soft grey wall. The hallway the room turns into is short and darker than the living room and kitchen. There are a couple doors to Dean's left, one to his right. One on the left is ajar and there Dean finds the bathroom. It's sizeable, Dean notes, and he muses that either Castiel must have gotten good at credit card scamming fast, or he has a job. The thought immediately brings images of blue vests and spilled slushies that are laced with pain and tight chests, of sad eyes and a fixed tie. Failed dates and pink goo. Dean aches a little.

He strips quickly after finding the light and heater switches, removing a string of blue beads from his pocket and placing them in the sink, and steps into the tub, not bothering to twist the cold tap along with the hot. Dean, whether consciously or not, craves physical stimulation, no matter if it manifests itself in pleasure or pain. Dean needs feeling against his skin, texture and temperature and reaction. The water raises his skin red and angry, hairs standing on end, sleepy muscles jumping. Dean loves it, shudders under the harsh spray. It feels good.

Steam rises and curls around him, entering his lungs and filling him with heat and wetness. He lets it consume him, inside and out, and shuts his eyes and stretches and pulls at stiff muscles as it strokes his skin so softly. The water is a never-ending melody, a steady beat and a white noise thrumming at the base of his skull that whites everything else out, and for a few minutes Dean's mind is blissfully blank.

Until it isn't; until Dean chokes on it, because the steam suddenly smells of burning skin, of burning cotton, a pyre, Sam's pyre, Sam's skin, Sam's hair. Dean gasps and acid bubbles in the back of his throat and he doubles over, sees the dirt and blood running off of him, down his legs in thick streams between curls of leg hair and it's all swirling down the drain, a garish bath bomb. He stares at his hands and scrubs them, scrubs at the dirt beneath his nails and the blood in the creases of his palms until they hurt and sting and his cuticles start to bleed. More blood. Always more blood on his hands. Sam's blood. Evaporating, becoming the smoke he's inhaling, filling himself with, nurturing himself with. Bile rises, thick and sour, and Dean's hand lands on the curtain, preparing to protect Castiel's clean white walls and furniture and fixings from his sickness, mental, physical, and otherwise.

And then it's gone. And he's clean. And the steam smells of soap rather than Sam and Dean bows his head to breathe and to say silent thanks to a silent deity.

Dean closes his eyes for a minute to catch his breath and calm himself before reaching for Castiel's soap and he then notices the array of bottles and soaps the once-Angel keeps. Dean huffs what may be the outline of a laugh, more of a crackling, choked sound that anything else, and runs his finger over the small collection. He never knew. Angel-Cas never needed to shower, never asked for any fancy soap or shampoo when he did. Used what Sam and Dean used when he was human - value brand all-in-one, usually some nondescript generic scent. So Dean aches a little, feels guilt and sadness stroke his arm languidly as he reads labels advertising "Wild Vetiver with Forest Honey" and "Sweet Sage and Rosemary" and "Blackberry-Honeysuckle". He supposes Castiel likes natural forest-y scents, and things made of natural forest-y things, as each bottle screams "organic/all-natural/hippie-goo" in one way or another. And then Dean realizes that this is Castiel developing tastes, this is Castiel being human, _becoming_ human, and he hurts on the inside because he realizes he doesn't know a thing about this new human Castiel. Doesn't know his favourite scents, his favourite TV shows or genre of movie or midnight snack or beer or brand of shoe or aspirations or opinion on politics or fucking anything. Dean doesn't know fucking anything. Castiel is a stranger who likes forest smells and hipster packaging. And worse, Dean knows Castiel knows _everything_ about him.

Dean's chest hurts as the enormity of the realization hits him and his cheeks burn and he wants to cry. Castiel is a stranger to him. A stranger. Seven years and he's still a stranger. Devoting his life and livelihood and health to him and he's still a fucking stranger.

Dean rips out of the shower, nearly forgetting to turn off the spray of water and he slams the cupboards open, the panic in his chest real and vicious and wild. His blood thumps loudly in his ears and a high, keening note pervades everything. He paws through Castiel's stuff, breath coming fast and short. Something. There has to be something, maybe a few things that will tell Dean more, fill his sudden ravishing need for information on Cas and spill all the secrets that are hidden and growing beneath that smooth golden skin.

There's pills. Bottles of pills. Ibuprofen - Motrin, Advil, Tylenol. Valerian. Rosehips. Calcium and vitamin supplements. Dean pulls his fingers through tissues and spare things and some hair product and cotton balls and a medical kit fit for a special ops helicopter. He slams the doors of the cupboards shut and tugs his clothes back on, never mind that they stick and pull at his damp skin.

His mind is whirring, moving so fast, heart thumping in time with the universe as he storms out of the bathroom and stands in the middle of the living room, whipping around to see anything and everything all at once. Plants. Castiel likes plants. Big, hanging ones with soft leaves over flowers. Books. Castiel loves books. Shelves and shelves of them, piles of them on the floor, one on every table, bookmark sticking out of the top. Picture frames. Empty picture frames. Nice ones, made of wood and metals, hanging on the walls, framing nothing. And… cat toys. Cat toys. Why the fuck… Dean whips around, eyes searching as his hands do for a cat lying somewhere asleep in the shadows. A cat. Castiel likes cats. Dean can deal with cats.

He doesn't even notice the other presence entering the room, doesn't notice a hand landing on his shoulder, only reacts when his brain squeals to a halt as a booming voice says his name and squeezes his shoulder hard.

Dean freezes, breath coming fast and heart beating erratically, hands clenching around nothing. His eyes flicker and he curves his spine until he can see Castiel standing stoic behind him to his left. The man's eyes are sad and still and make Dean's heart quiet and stutter and his grip loosens somewhat as their eyes meet.

He can see the words about to drop from Cas' lips, can see them hanging there, heavy and wondering and sad, and he can also see the moment Castiel changes his mind and a quipped "Breakfast is ready," is thrown into his face before the hand leaves his arm, the heat leaving a cold spot that Dean touches gently. But his eyes are held, continue to be held for a moment or two as Cas passes questions or words or feelings to the other man silently. Dean plays dumb, pretends to just be looking at Cas, as if nothing more important or pressing is being asked here. Ignores the obvious pleas of "Dean, what are you doing, are you alright, are you okay, let me help you, soothe you, calm you down so you can fucking talk to me." Ignores all of them.

In favour of asking a stupidly blatant question: "Where's your cat?"

Castiel's brow turns upwards almost comically as he takes in the question, even checks around his feet for a second before seeing the toys thrown at the base of the couch: some tinkly-looking ball and a fluffy mouse.

"Oh." Cas grumbles, looking uncomfortable and awkward and sad, and Dean immediately regrets his question, his extreme over-reaction following his sickening realization. "Oh," Cas repeats, seemingly searching for words, his posturing becoming small and turned-in. Dean doesn't like it. It doesn't suit him. "Well I… I adopted one about a month ago but it didn't go well." He's not meeting Dean's eyes, instead staring at the toys and his toes, cheeks slowly reddening, voice thickening. A few words are mumbled and Dean feels his knees weaken, almost to the point of giving out, as he hears words like 'lonely' and 'friend' and 'home' and Dean thinks he might actually fucking faint. But then Cas' voice gets stronger again, more confident, though not any less heartbreaking. "He didn't seem to like me very much." At this point Castiel clears his throat with finality and looks up, taking in a deep breath and sloughing the obvious hurt from his posture and features. "But oh well. I guess it wasn't meant to be." His mouth stretches on one side in a sad parody of a smile, eyes not giving anything away, and Dean can feel the shock and pain and sadness twisting his features; can feel his slack jaw and upturned brow and wide eyes, but can't bring himself to change it.

Castiel's last words seem awkward, though, to Dean, and he guesses that the phrases aren't Cas' own, but rather ones he's picked up from people, ones he's heard other people say, and it makes Dean sad and jealousy prickles down the back of his neck though he refuses to heed it.

Cas' eyes flicker up to meet Dean's finally, posture still submissive, and turns towards the small breakfast table in the kitchen. Dean's eyes follow Castiel's wide shoulders and sees that the table is set, with placemats and matching plates and cutlery and rounded glasses. A small potted flower sits between the places. Dean can feel his brows coming together even further, the corners of his mouth turned down, and he follows Castiel to the table like a chastised dog. Food is steaming on each of their plates - fluffy-looking eggs and golden toast and fried slabs of ham and even little bowls of sliced strawberries and Dean can feel his throat start to close. Cas turns to sit and Dean turns away, swiping a hand over his mouth before closing his eyes and fighting down the guilt and anguish that are pawing at the back of his throat. Darkness closes over him like a gaping maw and he feels goosebumps rise on his arms even though beads of sweat are trickling down his spine. He can feel Castiel staring at him, behind him, halfway into his seat, can feel the eyes bore holes lovingly into his shoulder blades and he feels so exposed. Dean covers his face with his hands and tries to pull himself inwards, creating a cocoon with the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest because he feels stripped and naked and bare and small and sick. It's too much. It's too much. Dean needs breath and loneliness and darkness and whiskey and instead Cas is forcing food and care and light and nurturing upon him and Dean wants to hate him for it, wants to lash out and punch and beat and kick until it stops so he can return to his self-imposed exile because that's where he's comfortable and that's where he belongs. That's where he belongs. He does not belong with Castiel and Castiel does not belong with him. He does not belong to Castiel and Castiel does not belong to him. He chants these truths to himself and his fingers turn to claws which grip at the skin of his face, near his eye sockets where they catch on bone and his shoulders draw up even higher and sensation and anticipation prickle down his spine-

And a hand is there, in between his shoulder blades, wide and soft and firm, and Dean stops himself from sinking back into it because he does not belong to Castiel and Castiel does not belong to him. They are separate; separated by a vast and immeasurable chasm that will never be crossed, because Castiel is good. The epitome of goodness. The picture of charity. The poster-boy of love and generosity and saintliness. And Dean…

Dean is not.

And the voice that follows the hand is so soft and gentle and low and calming and honey-smooth and gravel-rough that a sob chokes Dean's next breath because Dean _wants_ to belong to Castiel and a small voice at the back of his head whispers that Castiel _wants_ to belong to Dean.

But Dean does not deserve Castiel and Castiel certainly deserves more than Dean.

That Heavenly voice asks Dean to return to the table and eat his breakfast and Dean is too weak to refuse and though he hates himself for it, he swallows every mouthful.

* * *

Thanks for reading, guys. Sorry about the waits between not-so-long-or-juicy-chapters; I just have a lot going on right now. Hopefully they'll start coming faster when we get more into the story ;) Comments/reviews/questions/etc. always appreciated!


	12. April 3rd part 3

Castiel puts Dean to bed after they finish the meal in silence, though Dean resists. Dean doesn't say that he wants to return to his apartment but Castiel can sense the words, fat and heavy, on Dean's tongue. He knows Dean wants to say them because he feels like he should. Feels like he's using Castiel and abusing him. And Cas supposes Dean might be. Might be taking advantage of him. The sad thing is that Castiel really doesn't care. As long as Dean is with him, as long as he can hear the man's breathing from somewhere in his apartment or immediate surroundings, Castiel can sleep. He can breathe deep and full and cleansing. Castiel honestly doesn't give a fuck what Dean does or what he says or thinks. Because Dean is damaged, and when Castiel can't see or hear him his pulse thrums loud and heavy in his ears and he can feel his blood souring, his nerve-endings tingling with fear and anxiety and his head buzzing with empty, white thoughts, one above them all, a four-letter name.

But Castiel also knows that Dean is so damaged that Castiel's chest hurts and his eyes burn and his knees wobble whenever he thinks of it too much. Dean is so damaged that Castiel knows one thousand days would not be enough for him to voice all his pains and sadnesses and regrets, all his angers and rages and thoughts and little pieces of people he knew and people he used to be that hurt him every time he moves, speaks, breaths. Castiel knows this, which is why he has made a vow of patience, because no matter how fucking long it takes, how many days or months or years, Castiel will wait for Dean to come back to him, fully, mind, body, soul. Castiel knows. Castiel knows.

Dean dreams, heavy and full and vivid, wrapped in Castiel's soft and sweet-smelling sheets, immediate and thorough; he couldn't wake if he tried, if Castiel tried.

He dreams first of his childhood, when he and his body and his mind were new to the world and innocent, untainted, unbloodied, unbroken. Dean remembers the years in a soft golden light, the greens a touch brighter, the sky a bit bolder, the grass softer and finer beneath his toes. In Dean's mind, a soft country wind breaths across his freckled cheeks, brushes hair from his forehead because his mother cannot. Child-Dean blinks wide eyes in this memory, enjoying the broad canopies of the maples and lindens and appreciating the solid ground beneath his feet. He can still feel the vibrations of the Impala running over gravel in the base of his skull. His father is beside him, tall and haloed by the sun, handsome and strong and dark-eyed. He is Godly. His voice is low and commanding, but in a way that makes Dean ache, yearn to please and make proud. And Dean is digging a shallow grave in the clearing beside his father, and Sam is playing in the moss under the shade of a wide oak. Dean's thin golden arm sweeps long across his forehead as sweat starts to tickle at his temples, beading up quick and salty under the gaze of the afternoon sun, cicadas heralding it from the trees.

"This deep enough, Dad?"

"No, Dean. At least four feet. At least as tall as you." The look Dean's father shoots him is stern but his mouth twists at the corner, and Dean's chest swells and strength flows into his stringy muscles and he digs even faster, even harder, because while the number one priority is Sam's safety, making his father proud comes in a close second.

The pile of dirt beside the grave grows and grows as the hole sinks lower and lower. The sun's well past its peak now, burnishing everything orange as the birds call to it and each other. Dean stands straight and tall against one wall of the grave at his father's request, his father pulling himself gracefully out of the hole, and the opening is definitely above his head. His father swings a thick, well-muscled arm down for Dean to grasp and Dean makes a mental note that one day his forearms will look like that, and one day he'll be the one grasping at people and pulling them out of graves - out of danger and lines of fire and one day he'll pull Sam from certain death and then his father will definitely have to smile at him, have to ruffle his hair and pat him on the back and genuinely give him thanks and praise. The thought makes Dean's heart swell with love and trust; so much so that when John pulls an old, obviously used pint-sized coffin from the trunk, stolen from God knows where, Dean willingly sits in it after John asks and he looks up at his father who stares down at him, tells him to pull the cover over himself, and crawl out as fast as he can once it's covered. Dean doesn't think about the request, doesn't dwell on it, doesn't let the words actually sink in. Dean is being taught to follow commands first, think later. That's what good soldiers do, John says, Dean knows.

Sammy's here now, peeking over the edge of the grave, dinky car clutched tight in a fat, sticky fist. Dean's heart hammers as his father finishes the words but he stares into those brooding eyes and complies. He is a good soldier. Act, don't question. This is his father. This is his Dad. His Dad wouldn't steer him wrong. Not now, not ever. Not in front of Sam. Little Sammy. Dean's father loves him, a lot. Wants him safe and smart and strong. This is his Dad.

It doesn't stop Dean, 9 years old, from panicking, however, when he hears the first shovelfuls of loose dirt land and spill across the top of the coffin. Doesn't stop his heart from picking up speed by the second in the close, quiet dark of the child-sized coffin that smells of death and decay, sweet rot and bitter memories.

Dean waits and waits, knows the huge amount of dirt that will be shovelled over him before he is to try and escape. This is for his own good. This is experience, and his father is here, to help and to protect. Dean is fine. He's fine. He's safe.

But the minutes tick by and the darkness gets closer, tighter, and soon Dean can barely breathe and his nails claw at the warped and flaking wood above him, shards raining to cover his clothes and skin, and he can feel the skin of his fingers and pieces of his nails rip and tear but it doesn't matter because he needs to get out he needs out he needs out so he doesn't let his father down, Sammy down, himself down, his father down. Can't let his father down. Cannot let his father down. Dean claws and scratches and pulls and pries at a chunk of wood coming loose but as soon as it gives dirt comes spilling, warm and heavy, over his stomach and chest and he can feel worms squishing under his flailing arms and it's too much it's too much, too heavy, too dark, but Goddammit he cannot let his father.

Dean pulls in one last breath as the rest of the lid of the coffin gives way and the blackness swallows him whole.

The air's still warm, sweet, carrying notes of hay and manure and hot gravel. Dean opens his eyes, blinks softly until his eyes adjust to the dark, recognizes the broad gravel parking lot out front of Otis' bar an hour outside Omaha, Nebraska. Dean is familiar with this parking lot, with the bar, with the patrons.

He is nineteen years old. The neon from the bar's sign and window linings taint everything red and blue, light catching on the dew drops starting to settle over pebbles, blades of grass, windshields, hubcaps. Dean is alone tonight. Sam is sleeping in the motel down the road. John is on a hunt. Dean's stomach growls and his gaze leaves the reflection of the neon in the windows to the bar's front door, skating over a couple of bikers leaning beside it. He's hungry. Sam's hungry. Money is low, near non-existent, and John's still on a fucking hunt.

Dean strides towards the bar, pulling his jacket closer around him as the wind starts to pick up, bringing the sounds of the night-birds and katydids with it, and he's hyper-aware of his steps crunching in the gravel. He pulls his brows low, pouts his lips a little, lifts his shoulders and lengthens his strides. He needs to be taken seriously tonight. No matter that his heart is thumping wildly in his chest, his pulse erratic and thrumming, his breaths uneven and shallow, fear and shame and embarrassment sour in the back of his throat. He cannot show it, no choice, no choice. His stomach growls again and he knows Sam's is growling in his sleep and that's all he needs to pull in a deeper breath and turn his walk into a saunter and let his eyelids and lips hang soft and heavy. Naturally gracefully despite his height and build, he swings lazily around the first partition inside the bar, low, yellow lights and 47% rum making everyone hazy and better-looking, and he finds himself next to an aging man with thinning hair and a beer gut. The man eyes him for a few seconds, down and up and back down like a fucking piece of meat before a snarl quirks his nose. The man's beard covers half his face but Dean can practically hear how hard his teeth are clenched, and he can smell the stale sweat and tobacco and boozy breath and he can feel the heat radiating from him. It makes his stomach twist and he wants to throw up. But Dean is a good soldier. The man glances around stealthily and suddenly grabs a fistful of Dean's shirt. He's violent - overly so - and rough, fisting two handfuls of shirt now as he practically drags Dean out the door. Dean fights to keep his feet as they move, hands automatically gripping at the man's forearms, and he fights down a blush he knows is rising hot on his ears and nape of neck. He's no Goddamn rookie, greenie, virgin. He's done this before, but that makes it no less shameful as a few pairs of eyes catch on his and watch him and the man barrel out the door, brows merely piqued upwards in casual interest.

Dean keeps his gaze hard and confrontational, prideful as ever, as he's thrown against the wall beside the dumpsters, around the corner from the parking lot. Dean wriggles his hips, shifting his knees so he isn't kneeling on sharp gravel and he closes his eyes for a second as the sound of a zipper scratches humiliatingly loud through the air before he steels himself and takes a deep, resolving breath. The ghost-sound of Sam's growling stomach echoes in the back of his mind. The man's cock tastes like sin and musky tang. He refuses to gag as it's shoved repeatedly down his throat and forces himself to be good and suck in his cheeks, curve his tongue just so to catch under the head, pulling groans from the man's lips and he swallows without complaint when the man finishes, his scalp stinging where meaty fingers are twisted up in his hair. He is a good soldier. He does as told, because he needs to. He's a good soldier. And John is still on a fucking hunt. Dean can feel the beginnings of bruises on the curves of his collarbone and his lips feel swollen and cracked. The man leaves him slumped in a skiff of dry leaves and brome and Dean watches a fifty float peacefully down from his fist. Dean eyes it in the dark and the dirt for a minute before picking it up gingerly. The dew has not yet reached Dean's corner. The bill and the ground are dry and crackling to the touch. Dean pockets the bill, spits on the gravel, swipes a hand over his mouth, and heads back into the fray. He is a good soldier.

Dean wakes up with a jolt, heart thundering in his chest. His head whips around wildly because he doesn't recognize where he is, these sheets, this bed, this room. The smell and the air are foreign… until they aren't. Because Castiel is standing a few feet from the bed, eyes wide and an arm outstretched as if he wants to touch Dean, or just did. Things come rushing back to Dean, flashing like a montage of memories and Dean flushes. His ears burn like they did in his dream and he wonders if he said anything out loud, did anything, and the burning intensifies till his cheeks tingle with it. Dean drops Castiel's gaze quickly, shoulders hunched and submissive and Dean misses who he used to be, but he can't fucking control it; he's wound, tensed, ready to be hit, and anxiety is buzzing through his veins, telling him to shrink back, further, smaller, tighter, don't look him in eye, don't look at him at all.

But it's Castiel.

It's _Cas_.

And slowly… slowly… Dean finds it in himself to uncurl himself, inch by inch, until he's sitting normally again and breathing soft and deep, it's _Cas,_ and he risks a glance at Castiel and sees his eyes are wide and sad and Dean flinches. He hates that.

But Dean is still Dean, loud and brash and cocky and cheeky, and he's uncomfortable and anxious as hell, so he musters all the bravado he can, and straightens his shoulders. "You just gonna stand there all day and watch me sleep?" His voice is rough and low with disuse and he's pleased it doesn't crack.

Castiel's lost-puppy look intensifies, head tilting softly to the side, and he looks torn, as if he doesn't know whether he should speak or not. He's eyeing Dean carefully, eyes still wide, brows upturned, devastatingly sad.

"You were crying." He states it as a fact, unfortunate but real, and his voice scratches too-loud, too-deep, through the jaundiced light of the room.

Dean's suddenly painfully aware of the dry, crusty salt left in tear tracks down his face and he spares no time rubbing violently at them till they're gone, ears and nape of neck burning once more. He clenches his teeth and everything is too silent until Castiel mercifully speaks again, his voice too low and pulsing through the stillness of the morning.

"And no, I'm not going to watch you all day. I have to work, Dean." He avoids Dean's hunted-animal gaze and his voice is small, clipped, as if expecting a fight, expecting to have to defend himself, and he nearly does.

Dean's eyes are wide and his mouth is slack. Itchy tear tracks are forgotten.

"Work." Dean repeats, gaze searching Castiel's probingly until it's Castiel who can't stand it and turns to look at the floor, shifting to put his shoulder between himself and Dean.

"Yes."

Dean seems to struggle, a loose, unformed sound slipping from his slack lips. Castiel eyes those lips as they form around soundless words, pink and full like they've always been - pillow-soft, Castiel thinks, before chastising himself for it. Then he can't handle the lost look in Dean's eyes anymore and he fills in for him, rolling his eyes as if it doesn't make his chest clench with pain.

"I work at the post office in the next town over."

"Post office." Dean repeats.

Dean's mind reels with difficulty grasping the concept. Castiel was an Angel: a powerful, Holy, All-Mighty Warrior of the Lord, Immortal and Unending, Vast, Immeasurable. _So, so, so_ extraordinarily much more than a mailman. The thought actually makes Dean's stomach feel queasy, sour, his head swimming and nauseous. An _Angel_ … turned post boy… for him. Dean can feel his expression turning to one of disgust but he's powerless to stop it. He wants to cry.

Castiel nods, eyeing Dean carefully, and an idea comes to mind because the thought of leaving Dean now, after witnessing his nightmares first-hand, is unbearable and a voice in Castiel's head screams in protest, his feet dragging, fingers tingling to hold and touch and comfort and Castiel has to fight down anxiety and shyness in order to bring the words up from his throat. His voice is soft. "Just a few hours, Dean. An inventory shift…" Now Dean is watching Castiel's lips as they struggle to form their next words. The sound of the refrigerator is ridiculously loud in the background, buzzing through their heads. Castiel's lips are are dusky-pink in the shadow of a curtain and his skin look tinted blue, Dean thinks. Like he's sick, or cold. Dean remembers that he's sitting in Castiel's bed, twisting his fingers in Castiel's sheets. His cheeks tingle in disgust. "You could come with me."

And Dean immediately recognizes the request for what it is: " _Stay_ ", not in the household, not in the vicinity, but with him. With Castiel. By his side. And Dean recognizes the weakness in Cas that those words are bearing; he sees the vulnerability in the request and guilt and shame rip through Dean's chest. He barely hears the words Cas is babbling after the first ones: that there are stores and cafes and bars downtown and it won't be too long, no, and Dean can walk around and see the sights and explore and enjoy the weather and whatnot.

He just fucking can't say no.

So he's nodding, wordless, soundless, their eyes holding each other's, barren and strong and bold, and Castiel's brow lowers and he takes in a deep, deep, shuddering breath and nods once. He turns to leave the ever-lightening room, stopping only for a moment to tell Dean to put his clothes in the hamper and borrow some of Castiel's own.

For some reason the request brings a blush to Dean's face, no matter that they've shared clothes before, when Castiel was human and had even less than Sam and Dean had. Dean remembers that it was he who always had to share with Castiel. Sam's clothes were too big on him. The thought brings a bittersweet smile to his face. Castiel had tried on a pair of Sam's jeans after Dean had complained about not having enough for the both of them and they'd puddled around his ankles, the rips in the knees coming nearly halfway down Cas' calves. Dean had laughed. Castiel had looked positively tiny. Dean remembers huffing in indignation, however, when Castiel had later tried on Dean's own jeans. Cas had filled them more than Dean, his thighs stretching the material to the point that it started wrinkling. Cas had looked up to Dean, eyes innocent and questioning, standing stiff and awkward in the worn denim. Dean didn't answer Cas' look for a while, because he found his throat to feel gummed up. He'd just realized that Castiel wasn't some scrawny dude in a trench coat. He was _thick_. A fighter. A warrior. And Dean would deny to the end of his days that he had trouble pulling his eyes away from Cas' thighs in those jeans.

The memory makes Dean colour, but smile. It feels foreign, wrong, on his face. Dean stands, looking down the hallway where he can hear Castiel cleaning up in the kitchen. He huffs a breath and checks the clock and moves forward to raid the closet.

* * *

Hello, all. I'm not completely happy with this little instalment... like at all. So I would really appreciate any suggestions to make it better.

On another note, thank you so much for reading!


	13. April 3rd part 4

The shirt Dean has chosen is heavy cotton, dark green, settling thickly on his shoulders. He feels safe in it when the chill March air nips at his nose and the apples of his cheeks. It fits him well, he thinks, if a little big, and it smells like Castiel. Hell, he smells like Castiel. Like his sheets, like his pillows, like his closet - the bundles of dried lavender and cedar that keep the moths at bay. Dean likes it, though a small, old voice in the back of his mind whispers that smelling like Castiel makes him Castiel's bitch. Makes him lesser, submissive, belonging to the other man. Dean finds he doesn't mind it so much. At all, really. A shiver runs down his spine as the thought of himself belonging to Castiel crosses his mind. He doesn't let himself think about it, but colour rises to his cheeks nonetheless. He's thought it before, years ago, when Sam was far from Dean's heart and Castiel was closer than he ever had been, had any right to be, the thought that he belongs to Castiel and Castiel belongs to him. Dean ducks his head as he climbs into Castiel's shitty Lincoln, engine rattling, and he avoids his eyes, curling his hands into the long sleeves of the shirt, suddenly feeling so shy even his hands don't want to be seen.

The drive to Castiel's work has them weaving through sketchy rows of abandoned developments and streets lined with apartment buildings before they trickle into fields and roadside flowers. There are tulips, thick and heavy in the ditches, pulled at by the wind like boats on waves, red, orange, yellow, purple, pink, white, and Dean thinks that someone must have planted them. His mother had tulips in her garden.

The flat, yellow horizon eventually shows signs of starting to turn into small-town: family farms and signs for "Annual Tractor Show at Town Hall" giving it away. It's then that Castiel has to pull a sharp stop at a red light and a forgotten cardboard box slides, bumping into Dean's feet like a needy cat. He stares down and something painful and nostalgic pulls at the back of his throat, filling his chest and tingling in his fingers. Dean is frozen. He sees a full box of tapes, not three or four like in Castiel's. No, this box is brimming. Some of them have masking tape over one edge, the band and album scrawled in John's concise handwriting. The box smells a bit like mould, like rot. That same box has been in the car since Dean can remember and each tape has been played hundreds of times. Dean's favourites - the ones with easy words and repetitive choruses so he can sing along - are a little more beat-up than others, John's favourites meticulously lined along the bottom. Dean's made sure at least some of those are his favourite too, so he and his father always have something to talk about, so Dean always has a point that he is sure his father approves of. Each tape, the hundreds of hours of silence it's killed, is the soundtrack to four lives. The sole witness to the year Dean's birthday was forgotten by John, and Dean and Sam had a party in the back seat all by themselves, to the clearest memory Dean has of his father's laugh, to the stone-cold silence of the first drive to Stanford, to the makeshift doctor's office across the back seat one awful, freezing February night, stitches stitched and wounds cleaned out and torn tendons wrapped by stiff fingers grabbing tools and supplies off of near-cracking leather. To Castiel's first nap, recently-human, waking startled, drooling, and ready for a fight in the passenger seat. And the first time Castiel held Dean's hand, when memories of Purgatory were too loud and too frequent, too real, too close. Dean's fingers twitch.

"-ean."

Dean jolts, head slamming back against the headrest, hard enough to ring in his ears.

"Dean." The voice is quiet, calm, but Dean can hear the urgent tone laid carefully beneath it.

He looks over to Castiel as an answer, thumbs still worrying the hems of the sleeves, eyes low, because Dean feels low, for one reason or another. And then he wonders what he was doing, what he looked like while he was thinking, because Castiel is staring at him, a little concerned, a little grim, and Dean hates it. He can feel one side of his nose quirking up into the start of a snarl. He turns his face away.

A deep breath, and Dean's gaze returns to the box. He bends, feeling his seatbelt pulling tight across his chest, and picks up the tapes from the box with soft fingers. He reads the labels, much like his father's, except this writing in blue ink is neat and tall and swirling at the ends. Dean likes it. Led Zeppelin, The Doors, The Eagles, Neil Young, and-

"Fuck," Dean hears himself breath through a little laugh. "Elvis."

Castiel's head whips over to stare at Dean. Dean doesn't look up, just chuckles again a softly at the Hawaiian shirt on the little picture and then grabs another tape and stares Neil Young hard in the eyes.

"Didn't I teach you anything?" Dean asks, voice rough but free from poison. "Fucking Neil Young." He risks a look at Castiel, side-eyes him, and sees he's already being looked at. "Eyes on the road, Cas." He murmurs, and scans the tracklist on the reverse.

Castiel seems to snort at Dean's chastisements, coming out in a tiny huff of breath, but Dean can feel his eyes leave him.

Cas' voice echoes the rumble of the tires over the loose gravel dusting the road. "I like Neil Young. He's a very skillful lyricist."

"Does he even write his own music?"

Castiel shrugs, shoulder coming up fluidly, and Dean notices how thick Castiel's neck is, how wide the tendons stretch on the side, ear to collarbone. He coughs. Castiel mercifully talks over it, "And you can't say that The King doesn't have an amazing voice."

Dean can feel himself smirking, failing at stifling a huffed breath of a laugh, and mumbling something in the affirmative after repeating it quietly: "The King," and his chest aches dully at the normalcy of this, the same as it was years ago, at the beginning of it all. Same topics, same words, same gestures. And yet everything is different; the Impala is gone, the box of tapes is gone, and there are two bodies in the car instead of three. Dean can feel the loss as if it's a tangible thing he can hold inside of his chest.

The building Castiel works in is a low brick one, set back from the road and across the street from the town hall. The sign in front of it boasts 12,000 people. Dean's heart does a funny flip, maybe anxious or saddened, as Castiel pulls into a spot in the little parking lot that is for Post Office employees only.

The goodbye is awkward, Castiel first taking a moment to mention a couple cafes and shops Dean might like, and then he reassures Dean that it'll be four hours at most, and then his voice trails off and Castiel is left looking at Dean like he used to, when any day could very well be their last, all sad, high brows and down-turned mouth, eyes round and so fucking blue. Dean clears his throat and looks away, muttering a 'see you', before turning, hands jamming firmly down into his pockets, and walking away. He doesn't look back to see Castiel, standing still as a statue, staring after him until his chin wobbles the slightest bit and he turns away, shoulders low, and walks through the grass and into the building.

Dean closes his eyes as he walks, feeling naked and vulnerable without his jacket or a gun or a duffel over his shoulder. He realizes he doesn't even have a wallet in his pocket, or Castiel's pocket, he means. Only a few bills shoved carelessly into the soft, worn khakis that sag a little at the waist. He finds himself eyeing up every person that passes him along the sidewalk, wondering if they're important, if they know something, look suspicious, if he should approach them, talk to them, and then he remembers that this isn't a case. A tall man with brown hair passes by quickly and for a moment Dean's heart is pumping wildly, and the man turns, hair shaggy and soft-looking, skin tanned and smooth. But it is not Sam, obviously, Dean tells himself. Sam is dead. Murdered. Dean still turns as he walks to eye the man until he's out of view. He could be Sam, from the back, Dean thinks, maybe when Sam was younger and slighter. A wave of anguish washes over Dean and he can feel his face crumpling, teeth and fists clenched so hard with the distinct sense that a large part of himself is missing, torn off of him. He forces an even breath from his nose and turns around. His palms feel slick with blood.

Suddenly Dean realizes that he's stopped walking, that he's standing awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk and people are pushing around him. He comes back to himself slowly, turning around in a circle to check his surroundings. He doesn't remember any of these buildings. The one beside him is painted green and yellow, peeling and cracking, and Dean is standing beside a table covered in books. A hand-drawn sign advertises them for a dollar apiece. A big red one catches his eye; "The Flood from Heaven". A shiver crawls down Dean's spine, his head recoiling slightly, turning to the side, and he blinks and reads it again. "The Flood from Heaven." Before he knows what he's doing his hand is snatching out and he's reading the blurb inside the cover, heart beating wildly, erratically. It's a book about scientifically proving the existence of Atlantis. Dean's heartbeat slows. It's a stupid title. Dean distractedly thinks that Castiel must know whether Atlantis is or was real. He makes a subconscious note to ask him later. Dean puts the book back gingerly and walks into the store. He overcompensates in a moment of low confidence, his strides too heavy, long, his posture too tall and rigid. He is too big for this store. The walls and shelves are crammed with books, the floor creaking and squealing angrily beneath his feet, shoulders brushing against wire racks. He immediately curls in on himself, hands coming up close to his chest, and he startles when a woman's voice greets him.

"Can I help you find anything, son?" Her face is wide and brown and wrinkles gather at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

Dean can feel himself chewing his lower lip nervously but is powerless to stop it. "No." He barks before turning away and staring blankly at one of the book-encrusted walls. Dean thinks to himself that it's been at least a year since he's been in a store to shop, let alone had to converse with the kindly old owner.

"Okay well holler if you need anything," she calls, and then he can hear her shuffle away through a curtain behind the cash desk.

Dean calms when he can feel that she's left. His shoulders hang loose, sore from being tensed up for so long, and he lets his head tilt softly to the side. The usual pain in his neck and back are missing and it feels wrong.

As Dean blinks, calming himself, he starts zeroing in on titles. He guesses he's in the 'Classics' section. Don Quixote, Treasure Island, Gulliver's Travels, Tale of Two Cities. Dean recognizes a copy of an old edition of Slaughterhouse Five that he stole in tenth grade. He remembers that he left it in the trunk of the Impala and a twinge of regret ignites in his chest, joining all the others like a dark room full of candles. Dean breathes in the smell of the old, yellowing pages, the cracking binding glue and the flaking covers. He thinks to himself that Sam would have loved this place. Castiel too, probably. Dean finds himself fingering the spine of a decrepit copy of Walden and grimaces at it. The cover looks serene, all still lake and quiet pines. He can almost taste the wind. The blue of the lake looks like irises to Dean, set in a tanned face with dark stubble. He stares at it until it fuzzes out and blurs all over, and the boat at the lake's centre looks like a pupil. The eye is familiar, sad and pained and questioning and quiet. Dean wonders if Castiel's ever read Thoreau. He puts the book down, fingers trailing down its cracking spine.

He picks at a blue hardcover with faded gold script. The Sun Also Rises. Dean thinks to himself that Castiel speaks like Hemingway writes, all even and long-sentenced, simple words and clear syllables. Much less complex than the meanings tucked beneath. Dean smooths his hand over the old book and pulls it to his chest. It's a dollar-seventy-five, and Dean doesn't let himself think about, dwell on it, before he's ringing a bell on the counter and throwing a couple dollars over the wood. He leaves when he can hear the woman starting to move towards him from behind the curtain, irrational fear clutching at his lungs. His throat tingles and adrenaline starts pumping through him and he nearly runs from the store, landing hard on the bright sidewalk, book clutched tightly in hand.

He reels a little as the sudden burst of sunlight momentarily blinds him, pulling up an arm to shield his eyes.

But he is okay. And he is alone. He is okay, and Castiel is just down the street.

Dean squints into the light and the pads of his fingers are rough against the cover of the book and the air smells of manure and cut hay. He turns away from the Post Office and continues walking, aimless, really, and he recognizes tall pink flowers in a planter outside another little shop. They are the ones that swung lazily around Sam's pyre, carried by wide drafts and tethered to the ground, delicate cups bobbing and waving to a mute rhythm.

The next storefront on Dean's left is that of a bar, just lighting up the 'open' sign, just grungy enough for Dean to feel comfortable, and he barrels in the door and barks his order before he's even taken a seat, ghost-blood dripping loose from his palms, air thick with smoke, the smell of burning hair. Behind his eyes, burning feathers, eaten up by embers and crackling away into nothing, floating on sour wind. The hollow, inhuman thunk of a head hitting the floor. The weight of a scythe in his hands. Shaking hands slosh whiskey over the counter before it's even touched his trembling lips.

oOo

Castiel tries not to seem rushing, anxious. A coworker, Evelyn, asks him how his weekend was. His replies are short, clipped, cold. He winces minutely at himself. She seems to get the message, though, and he feels guilty relief when her face drops and she turns away with a polite goodbye. His head is buzzing, his fingers restless, though he chants to himself that Dean is fine. Fine. He's an adult; responsible; fine.

It does nothing to soothe his nerves, and his lips are sore, his tongue darting out to lick at them every couple seconds. He rubs his palms together, the soft scraping sound of his calloused skin soothing, like waves or air through leaves. He glances at the clock and at the pile of paperwork that can wait until tomorrow. With a fortifying breath Cas whispers a "fuck it," and heads for the door. His fingers play at his sides, deft and quick and quivering, and his strides are heavy and long.

Along the main street his head swivels back and forth constantly, peering in windows of shops, before he realizes that both he and Dean have phones, and he sends a quick text to Dean, hoping for the message to sound light and unworried, though he's not sure he's succeeded. He keeps walking, checks in a couple cafes and in a leather shop and a little grocery store and even the liquor store, much to his own chagrin, but Dean remains unfound. Castiel checks his phone near-incessantly, his ears straining to hear vibrations over his own labouring breath and the thundering of his heart. It's pointless; his phone remains dark and quiet. With every unsuccessful stop Castiel's anxiety ratchets higher and higher, until he actually feels like he's going to pass out, vision blackening around the edges, every sound pulsing hollow and deep, and awful thoughts seep into his consciousness. What if Dean's run off, left him? Decided Castiel was not enough or too much, was suffocating, killing him. Cas knew he was pushing it, he knew, but he also thought he was giving Dean what he needed. But Dean could actually be gone, panicking and recovering from nightmares and horrors alike on his own like he has been for the past seven fucking months, could have easily gotten a cab or a bus somewhere, anywhere, and Castiel is just about to turn around and run back to his car to drive to Dean's apartment at least an hour away from here when a sketchy-as-hell bar at the end of the main road catches his eye. It's in between a corner store and the town's only motel before the road turns back into fields and farmhouses. Castiel supposes a bar like that could be home to Dean just as easily, if not more than, his apartment. The thought makes his heart squeeze and his nose tingle, throat thick and hot. Teeth clenched, Castiel strides purposefully towards it - not running, no. Not running. The sun feels too hot on his back and he forces even breaths from his nose and sweat breaks out along his forehead and in a moment he's shoving the door open, and there, the only person at the bar, is Dean.

His thoughts are such a swirling mess he doesn't think before he's clasping Dean roughly on the shoulder and Dean startles and fumbles the tumbler held to his lips. He chokes a little, and then he's licking at the whiskey that's dribbling down his hand, and Cas turns, breaths coming fast and heavy, to look at the ground instead. When Dean's satisfied with his cleaning up, he turns to Castiel, his smile wide and hollow, his eyes cloudy and unfocused. All Castiel can smell is stale alcohol. He wrinkles one side of his nose by instinct, corners of his mouth turning down. He can feel his eyes narrowing at Dean, and anger, sudden and hot, licks through his throat, crackles in his chest.

"Dean," His tone is ridiculously low, challenging and warning and dangerous.

Dean's smirk is cocky and joking and Castiel is _so_ not in the mood.

"Hey, baby. Come here often?" Castiel can feel his cheeks flush hotly and the collar of his shirt feels stifling. He unconsciously cracks his knuckles at his sides. "Barkeep, a drink for my fellow patron, here." Dean gestures boldly with his over-pronounced words, the apples of his cheeks red and his mouth pulling into a cheeky grin. Seeing Dean like this physically hurts. Dean turns again to Castiel, posture loose, face open and smiling. Castiel forces himself to hold his eyes. "How're you doing, babe?"

"Dean, we should go." He knows getting upset will get him nowhere with Dean like this. He focuses on his breathing and a weight seems to fall off his shoulders when he realizes that he has found Dean, relatively safe and unharmed as of yet. Dean can return with Castiel, and Castiel resists shuddering at the notion. "Now."

"What? I'm only getting started!" He leans back on his stool, far enough that Castiel jolts forward to grab his shirt and pull him back upright, but Dean's lack of balance sends him reeling forward, and Castiel's fist changes from pulling Dean towards him to pushing him away in a millisecond. Dean's nose is an inch from Castiel's. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest.

"Well hey there, sweetheart." Dean's eyes are inches from his own, so green and deep and glazed and far-away, and they flicker from looking into Cas' eyes to his lips. He's disgusted by it; that Dean feels the need to turn to drink in the middle of the day to numb his pain. For a second the thought slips into his mind that he's failed. Dean, and himself.

Castiel pulls his fist from the folds of Dean's shirt and turns to the bartender who's eyeing them nonchalantly while wiping down glasses.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Castiel hisses, his anger reigniting in a moment once he realizes that he has someone to blame for this, other than Dean and himself. He knows it's juvenile, immature, and he really does not care. "It's two in the fucking afternoon and he's already gone." He gestures to Dean wildly who's staring up at Castiel thoughtfully, his chin in his hand, and looking at him pulls at something in Castiel and turns his tone from angry to anguished, desperate, almost, though he would never admit to it. He can feel his voice instantly lose its power, its ferocity. His next words are soft and weak and pleading and Castiel hates it. "It's two o'clock." he repeats.

The bartender purses his lips under his beard and shrugs, eyes flickering between Dean and Castiel. "Money is money." His voice is gruff, but it isn't rude. Castiel deflates a bit more. "Look, I won't serve your boyfriend anymore. Get 'im out of here." He flicks his towel dismissively towards them and turns away.

Castiel doesn't react to the term 'boyfriend'. He doesn't have the strength. He turns sullenly to Dean, who smiles widely again when Castiel looks at him, and shoves at his shoulder to get him off the stool. Dean throws some bills on the counter without looking at them and reaches back for his tumbler, knocking the remaining whiskey back before letting himself move on, swinging an arm over Castiel's shoulders to help himself balance. Castiel ignores the heat pouring off Dean and leads them through the door.

"Where to, boss?" Dean's words are more slurred now, the alcohol catching up to him, and Castiel pulls in a disheartened breath, squinting against the sunlight.

"Home, Dean."

Dean grins and turns and pokes Castiel's cheek softly with his index finger and Castiel wants to cry.

"Oh, shit!" Dean suddenly cries, pulling away from Castiel. He doesn't take two steps before he stumbles, arms swinging wildly to steady himself. "Shit," he repeats, voice low. He's talking to himself, stammering fast and incoherent.

Castiel follows closely, hand out incase he needs to catch Dean, as Dean tries to jog back into the bar.

He busts through the door before Castiel can hear the bartender yelling at Dean half-heartedly to leave before Dean's out the door and beside Castiel again. His breath is a little laboured and he's swaying on his feet.

"Got you a presen'" he mumbles, smiling like he's satisfied with himself, and held out to Castiel is an old blue book.

Castiel can almost feel pieces shatter in his chest at Dean's hopeful and proud face, glancing quickly from the book and back up again. Tentatively, everything suddenly very quiet, Castiel reaches for the book. Its cover is rough, worn canvas dyed navy and the title can only be read when he turns it to face the sun. Castle recognizes the title and his heart clenches sadly because he has it already at home. Dean doesn't have to know that, though. Dean doesn't have to know. So Castiel forces his lips into a smile, though it feels unnatural and wrong, and he graciously thanks Dean with a nod and a pat on the shoulder, and Dean beams at him so bright and so careless that Castiel understands why Dean drinks, sympathizes for a moment, and quietly wishes he coped with drink too. It looks like it works well. Another day, when he is weaker than he is now, he tells himself. Another day. Castiel tucks the book to his side and leads Dean down the main road back to the Post Office. Dean walks jauntily beside him, looking interestedly up at the flags flying from each old brick building, at the slick black lampposts lining the sidewalks, at the boxes of flowers in front of each door.

Dean's suddenly speaking and Cas startles, twisting to face him. "It was those." Dean's pointing to the flowers out front of the corner store. They're short little pansies. "Tall n' pink." Dean continues.

"Dean," Worry thrums low in Castiel's skull. "Those aren't tall or pink." He stares at Dean carefully, incredulously. "They're pansies."

"Yep." Dean pops his 'p'. "Tall n' pink. Wildflowers."

"What do you mean?" Castiel can feel his quickly rising pulse, hear it like heavy bass in his ears.

"Why 'm drunk. Those flowers, tall n' pink, were at Sammy's pyre. Made me sad." His face has fallen now, and Castiel thinks that the worst part is how accepting he looks of it, like it's just something that _happens_. Like it's _okay_.

"Dean-" Castiel searches his head frantically for words, his toes curling with frustration, but he comes up blank. He can feel himself grinding his teeth. What is there to say? But Dean seems content with the silence, looking thoughtfully into space, and so Castiel counts it as a loss and turns back to stare at the sidewalk being eaten up by their steps.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading - comments/questions/ideas/etc. always appreciated!

Three little notes:

1\. I couldn't resist the Elvis reference. I absolutely love that Cas loves Elvis in T&S and as an avid Elvis listener myself, I can't hear the King without now hearing Destiel. I definitely don't mean to rip off Gabriel and Standbyme, I just mean to reference their fantastic characterization 3

2\. I really do love Hemingway - Sun Also Rises is a lovely book that I very highly recommend - and the way he writes really, really does echo Cas. There's my literary recommendation for the night.

3\. I honestly still consider this to be the intro to the fic. It's not all planned out but I do know it's going to be a biggie! Come along for the ride :)


	14. April 11th

Black. Soft black. Velvety and deep. Quiet and whole and thick like an organism. Like a living thing. Sleepy eyes blink open, brushing eyelashes against cheekbones. Cool air of an open window running over brow. Grey. Loose and linear. Moonbeams and starshine.

Castiel turns over on the sofa bed and the sound of rustling is all that exists for a moment. Until the sound that roused Castiel repeats itself. It's a moan, deep and short and panicked. Almost a grunt. It's quick, huffed breaths. It's the violent brushing of limbs caught in blankets and it's the little knock of the headboard against the wall with a jarring movement. Castiel knows these sounds. They've become his lullaby.

He pads gingerly to Dean's room and peeks in the door that the other man always keeps ajar. Dean is lying on his back, head turned and neck straining and long, as if he's trying to escape his own body, trying to escape himself. His hands are tight fists and his legs are bent, sheets pulled tightly and rucked up and down all over the place. One calf is caught, foot sticking awkwardly over the edge of the mattress and half a pillow is caught under Dean's waist. His skin is dusky in the dark, his shadows very blue and his highlights yellowed grey. His face is sad and twisted and tragic. Castiel is painfully aware of his own heartbeat and of the rise and fall of Dean's bare chest. In the stillness Castiel's mind turns this situation into a hundred others. Old tentative ones and new tired ones.

One time years ago Dean had exited a shower and Castiel had instantly fallen in love with the way the water beaded up and clung to his skin and reflected every colour he was and Dean had called him a perv and flicked his towel at him and stared at him thoughtfully all through lunch later that day. Castiel cannot count the number of times he'd wished he'd been disrespectful enough to read Dean's thoughts that hour. He almost regrets it. Castiel has resigned himself to the fact that he knows if he still had his Grace he'd be reading Dean's thoughts every day, if only to help understand and console and maybe eventually heal. But that goal seems too far off for even Castiel to fathom.

Another noise falls from Dean's lips. It's low and strangled and rough and quavering. It's joined by a violent shuddering and spasming muscles. Castiel can feel his face twist into displeasure and Dean's movements cause his chest to clench painfully. Castiel is reminded once again that Dean is a very broken man.

A second later and Cas has a hand on Dean's and Dean is startling awake, as he always does, and Cas is hushing him and petting his hand softly but this time is different when Castiel pulls the sheet up and slides in beside Dean. He can immediately feel the heat pouring from Dean's skin and he can immediately feel the painful tensing of Dean's overly-taught muscles. But Castiel ignores the gut reaction to pull away as well and lies down, sharing Dean's pillow.

Castiel can hear the rapid breathing - Dean's and his own - and so he pets Dean's hand once, palm coming up to rest briefly on Dean's forehead as if to heal him, and then the hiss of twin exhales fills the room.

Castiel doesn't move when a hand comes up, slow and gentle and hesitant and infant-like, to fist the front of his shirt. Dean's body curls to become the yin to Castiel's yang and they both pretend to sleep.

* * *

Dean wakes up to an empty bed, sudden and cold and jarring. His heart is racing and sweat cools on his brow. He's lifted himself up onto his forearms and they quiver from holding his weight. He's reminded that he's probably in too poor shape to even consider going on a hunt, especially by himself. He reminds himself that he has finished hunting. He has given up the hunter life and his next great adventure will most certainly be death. The thought soothes Dean.

He pads through the living room and into the kitchen and breathes deep the coffee smell. Cas buys expensive hazelnut-tasting shit and Dean refuses to let on that he actually prefers the stuff to his regular black. The thought makes him feel domestic and tingles run through his palms. Where the Mark was aches. He reaches blindly for a mug on the shelf beside the sink and examines it. It's one of Dean's favourite parts to every morning with Cas, though he'd never recognize it as such. Castiel seems to have an ever-expanding collection of weird and strange and ridiculous mugs, most complete with a Saver's '99 cent' tag still stuck to the bottom. Today's mug looks hand-painted: a shitty Christmas scene of decorated houses, snowy trees, and starry skies, with "Merry Christmas, Janet" blobbed across it in red. The paint's so lumpy and uneven and thick that Dean can feel its ridges under his fingers as the heat warms them.

He hears Cas leave the bathroom and can smell his shampoo, his footsteps slapping wet across the hardwood. Dean turns when he can feel Cas standing behind him and he thinks he imagines the heat radiating from Cas' pinked skin, feet away. Dean suddenly feels meek, shy, and he averts his eyes. Castiel's towel is tied tight around his hips and his hair is spiked messily and randomly, black with water.

He stares at Dean evenly and quietly and Dean is painfully aware of the peace of the apartment - of its serenity. He and his loud mind do not belong.

"Good morning, Dean." The tone is somber and deep and rough like it always is. It never fails to make Dean's chest clench with nostalgia, churn with pain. Dean hates it as much as he loves it.

He gestures his - no, Janet's mug in Castiel's direction as a greeting and feels like he is ruining the serenity of Castiel's morning as the shifting of his feet makes the floor creak and his breaths sound too laboured and the squeaking of his mug against his fingers hurts his ears. His slurping of his coffee is deafening. Guilt rushes over Dean, familiar and reasonless, hot and red and instant. Dean can't explain it, can't reason it, but it is overwhelming and Dean can only nod at Castiel again and turn quickly to sit at the little wooden table, cringing visibly as the chair screeches against the floor. A small voice in his head names it as a panic attack, and a louder one translates that to weak, and useless, and helpless, and stupid. He's having a panic attack for literally no fucking reason. But the heat of it, the rush of it, is real. Very real. And Dean coaches himself to breathe. He knows. He knows. He hates himself.

Castiel watches, eyes tired and strained and so damn blue against the red and purple that ring them. Dean imagines his eyelashes clinging together with water droplets. He hisses a breath from between his teeth. He knows he woke Castiel up last night. He knows he does it near every night. He knows Castiel needs sleep, and peace, and serenity, and he knows that he can provide none of those things. Dread and anguish and guilt all churn together in Dean's stomach until he feels like he's going to throw up, his blood pumping loud in his ears and his palms near-dripping sweat. He swipes a hand over his mouth. His tongue is so dry.

"Breathe, Dean." He's not sure if the voice is Castiel's or inside his head. It doesn't really matter, because its timbre is soothing and familiar and low and Dean can't help but listen to it. It's like his Father's voice, but without the malice, without the disappointment, and Dean clutches at the words.

The apartment is silent for three minutes. Dean stares at Janet's friend's shitty writing.

He breaks the silence. He breaks everything.

"Why do you keep buying these mugs?"

Castiel is silent for a moment. Dean can feel his eyes boring into his face, but he can't bring himself to meet them. Dean can practically feel the breath Castiel pulls in.

"They're stories." The answer is simple and hummed and soft, spoken through an exhale. Castle quirks his head to the side, eyes piercing and squinting, searching and endless. But his mouth is sad, and still, and turned-down at the corners and Dean wishes he hadn't brought it up.

Dean returns to looking at his mug and he wonders what made Janet decide to give away her friend's hand-made gift. A fight. An affair. A betrayal. A death.

They are stories.

Every damn mug. It makes Dean feel very small.

Dean is still staring at the mug when a wide hand rests on his shoulder, its calloused skin making a brushing sound as it lands. It is too loud for the apartment, too loud for Dean's head. Dean wishes he couldn't hear. He's vaguely aware of his teeth squeaking as he clenches them tighter and tighter, over and over.

Castiel's hand on his shoulder is timeless, infinite, and painful. Too much. Dean shrugs it off and Castiel stands still for a minute. Dean feels a lump in his throat and the distinct urge to yell, scream, fight, and cry. Frustrated. He doesn't know why. He stays silent, eyeing Janet's mug.

Castiel turns eventually and leaves, shutting himself in the room him and Dean now share. Dean rests his head on his forearms and forces breath through his lungs.

* * *

A half hour later Castiel leaves for work, saying a soft goodbye that Dean cannot return, and shutting the door gently behind himself. Dean's hate for himself wells through him, seeming wanting to spill through his eyes and nose and ears. The pressure inside his head is deafening, and Dean almost likes it. He finds it's becoming addicting. Wild, stuffy quiet. Distracts from the now.

Dean stares at the calendar Castiel keeps on the kitchen wall for a few minutes. It is empty, and Dean feels both sadness and guilty, jealous pleasure at that. The thought of Castiel going out makes his breath hitch. He knows it's unhealthy. He can't bring himself to care. Dean eventually moves to take a seat on the couch. The worn leather protests and squeaks under him and he cringes and shudders. Then he's not seeing Castiel's living room, because the back seats in the Impala did the same thing. The same creak, screech, groan. Dean can see her interior clearly, the scuffing and the marks, the excess tapes and CDs jammed under the driver's seat, the bottles of water and beer rolling around the floor, the smell of the old flooring, probably mouldy, and of leaking gas. It hurts. And Dean can see Sam beside him, his image young and bright, breathing life into the Impala's carcass of a home. The Impala wasn't Dean's home. Not quite. Sam was. Dean wonders if he will ever find that again. Maybe in Castiel. The thought forces another image to mind, of Dean working and carving away at Castiel's chest, red and light and wet. Carving a new home, a new place to belong. Dean wants it. He forces the thought away, feeling bile reach the back of his throat.

Impala.

Impala.

Thinking of the Impala hurts less than thinking about home and Castiel.

Impala. Dean can hear the hiss of her tires when both he and Sam are sitting in the front, no one to weight the back. He can feel the way he needs to lean into sharp turns, her boat of a back end swinging out when he's going too fast, the way everything sliding around in the trunk reverberates through her walls and floor. Their voices stop dead and flat against her walls when they sing. Her plastic rattles and vibrates against their skulls as they try to sleep. He loves her.

Dean tries to imagine who has her now, who's continuing her story, and wonders whether she likes them. He wonders if she's still growling down some country road, spitting gravel and coughing smoke. He wonders if she's starting to rust in a lot and at that he can feel his pulse quicken in his wrists. There's a yearning deep in his chest that he knows will never be fulfilled and his hands quake against Castiel's leather couch.

He feels he has left a large part of his soul in the Impala. He wonders if her new owner can feel him there, palming the wheel, tapping rhythms in his knee against the door. He wonders if Sam thought of places he's left parts of his soul in the moments before Dean murdered him. Dean thinks Sam has pieces of his soul in the Impala, too, and at Stanford, most likely, and maybe even in Dean himself. He wonders whether or not he can feel the piece of Sam's soul inside of him.

Dean screws his eyes shut tighter and tighter until his skin aches with it, jaw clenching, blood pounding, and he tries to feel Sam inside of himself. Anything. A light. A presence. A low voice in the back of his skull calls him stupid and dumb. He must look like an idiot. But Dean is alone in nearly every sense of the word and he can't bring himself to care. Dean searches, ever deeper, ever deeper, for Sam. A call, a whisper, a pulse.

The apartment is absolutely still.

Castiel's plants rest green and full beside Dean. Late morning light filters pale and cold through the windows.

And Dean can feel nothing.

Perhaps a piece of Sam was not left within him. Perhaps all Sam left was memories, some golden and some bloody, and pain and ache and whatever's left over when love gets shattered. For the first time in weeks, Dean feels lonely and morose. Petulant, almost. The feeling's much worse, Dean realizes, when the person you're acting petulant for is dead. Dean keeps his eyes closed because he decides he prefers the warm dark to the hazy light and he forces some of his muscles to relax with an exhale. He tries to find comfort in the memories he has of Sam. He hasn't let himself think about them in depth in many months. They're warm and feel like they squeeze his heart and his lungs.

Dean thinks distractedly that this is what agony feels like.

* * *

Dean opens his eyes and the light in the room is grey. He wipes nonsensically at sweat cooling on his upper lip. He blinks a few times and winces at a twinge in his back, a pain in his neck. He looks to his left and startles when he sees that it's almost six o'clock. Six o'clock. It was barely ten o'clock a handful of minutes ago. It was morning. It was _morning._ Dean only had his eyes closed. He was awake. He was awake. And he is certain that that was minutes, not fucking _hours_ and he is certain the world is fucking with him. The world is fucking with him. He finds himself fisting the leather of the couch, curling in on himself slightly and eyes moving back and forth, back and forth, fast, because for the love of God he can't remember waking up. He can't remember falling asleep, can only remember thoughts of Sam, warm and sad and thick like honey. Dean is standing. He doesn't remember doing that either, and his breath starts coming faster and faster, hot and panicked and shallow. His brain feels like it's screaming and he starts pounding down the hall, looking for Cas because this place to too fucking quiet, before remembering that Castiel is at work and he forces himself to sit down again and his head is in his hands and he's pulling strands of hair out and his chest feels like it's about to fucking explode and his legs won't stop jittering up and down and Dean fucking cannot

And then the door squeals open and Dean actually yells and is suddenly on the opposite side of the room, hands up and ready to fight, eyes wide and posture cagey and low and then hands are coming towards Dean, wide and warm and safe, and he allows them to touch him because they feel nice and they are opening Dean's chest up and allowing more breath in until his lungs can fill properly again and the pain in his head starts to subside and they pull soft through his hair, flattening it, hurting softly where pieces were tugged out, and they move gently in long strokes down Dean's arms and Dean doesn't allow them near his neck because he flinches when they touch that soft skin, still red and warm to the touch, and they take Dean's own hands and hold them, skin cool, until they can stop shaking and grabbing and pulling at things and _Dean can_ _breathe_.

* * *

The next thing Dean registers is gravel rolling roughly beneath the Lincoln's tires. He blinks and starts, bumping the crest of his temple on the arch of the passenger window. He rubs it absently and then shame and guilt come crashing back to him and he eyes Castiel beside him in the driver's seat. He looks over to Dean, eyes soft and sad and pained and Dean _hates_ that look but he knows he's the cause of it and therefore can't much complain. It's his own damn fault. It's all his own damn fault. All the fucking time.

A 'sorry' drops from his lips, mumbled and low and quiet, and Castiel only nods and shoots Dean a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.

"It's just a bad day, Dean."

"Every day is a bad day." And now Dean feels like a thankless teenager, melodramatic and moody, but Castiel just keeps looking from the road to Dean and back again, eyeing them both with that open, gooey, sympathetic expression.

"You have good days, Dean. Or better days, at least." Castiel shrugs. "It's no big deal. No big deal." That last part is low and quiet, said to Castiel's self more than Dean.

Dean eyes the quake of Castiel's hands on the wheel for a moment before turning to face the fields rolling endless past the window.

* * *

Dean wipes away shameful tears when the car rolls through a red-light district of the next town over, averting his eyes from the men and women standing loose and relaxed on street corners, clothing askew and features bathed in neon. He feels like Cas knows. Naked and shameful and dirty. Tainted. He feels like Cas knows.

* * *

Dean says nothing when the car stops along one side of a cornfield and follows doggedly when Castiel gets out of his car and starts walking along the trees that separate this cornfield from the next. They follow the trees until the field ends, not turning into another field, but dropping off completely to become one raised side of a river. Castiel pulls himself over a rotting wood fence, Dean still following mindlessly, and they sit in two foldable chairs already set up in a little clearing, overlooking the river from their height. A rusted old Hibachi lays forgotten to one side and a pair of tongs hang from a branch to their left. Dean spots a sleeping bag under brome and an old reusable mug stuck between two branches. Dean recognizes this as a hobo camp. Abandoned, most likely.

Perhaps him and Castiel fit well in this setting. Neither of them seem to be particularly good at finding forever homes. Or forever anything, really. Dean recognizes his mortality like an old friend, and he feels ancient sitting in that mouldy, damp chair on the edge of a cliff in between two cornfields. Castiel turns to eye him once, mouth soft and loose, hair pulled at by the wind, and then turns to face the babbling river and beyond.

They watch the evening and the birds and occasionally each other until the blue light turns orange and then sepia, and when Castiel takes Dean's hand in his own, loose and cool and long, Dean doesn't pull away.


End file.
